


Red Dead Dejection

by LowHonorArthur



Series: Marston's Master, Mister Morgan [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Biting, Caning, Emotional Manipulation, Gun Kink, Humiliation, Low Honor Arthur, M/M, Masochism, No Honor Arthur, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Urination, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowHonorArthur/pseuds/LowHonorArthur
Summary: Arthur & John return to camp and work out the details of their new arrangement.This is a sequel. It's absolute trash compared to the first one. Go read that first, boah.Due to the graphic nature of this story it should not be viewed by anyone.
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Marston's Master, Mister Morgan [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807486
Comments: 58
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to 'Red Dead Degradation' so it may not be enjoyable without the first work under your belt.
> 
> Also, the first one was my attempt to stay within canon. That goes right out the window now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives to camp first and takes time contemplating the nature of his new reality.

The slosh of fabric being pulled from the bucket made John's heart smash itself against the walls of his rib-cage. Water had always terrified him, but now? Now he sincerely doubted he'd find the conviction to bathe properly ever again. 

The runoff from the rag streaming back into the bucket made him wince, more so than the sensation of wet warmth being pressed against his wounds. The burns spanning his back had cracked open in several places during the long ride back to Clemens Point and without proper attention there was a good chance he'd succumb to infection. John bit his bottom lip as the rag dragged across his marred flesh.

“These marks are something awful, John.” Abigail gently dabbed at the dried blood and fresh puss oozing from the edges of each lash mark.“You really should let Susan take a look at them.” 

John shook his head. Miss Grimshaw had a tendency to ask too many questions and her examinations were just a little too thorough for his liking; God forbid her experienced eyes happen upon some of the other wounds on his body. He wasn't prepared to make up any stories more complex than the thrashing he'd claimed to have endured in a Lemoyne Raider encampment. He could trust Abigail to keep information about his condition to herself but Susan would do what she thinks is best for the camp, which would very likely be reporting her findings to Dutch & Hosea. 

“Why are you menfolk so damn stubborn? ” Abigail chided. “There ain't no shame in getting jumped, John. No man is expected to hold his own against a dozen others.”

“I don't want Dutch starting a war over this.” John's voice was tight with exasperation, “It ain't worth it.” Especially true, considering John was lying.

Abigail returned the washcloth to the bucket of soapy water. John could hear a quiver in her voice as she exhaled slowly. Was she crying? He heard the distinct pop of a cork stopper being removed from the neck of a health cure bottle and sighed as the numbing liquid was spread generously on his back.

“I just, I am so sorry John. I-” Her voice was broken with a sob. Yes, definitely crying. John couldn't help but feel irritated at the woman. She was upset over him, sure, but she shouldn't be. No one should give the slightest damn over the piece of trash called John Marston. “I wish I had asked Arthur to come find you sooner. If he'd have seen you, he could have stopp-”

John twisted around, grabbed Abigail by her shoulders and began shaking her as he screamed in her face. “I ain't no little damsel that needs protecting, and I certainly don't need no woman shedding tears over me. Get the hell out of my tent, Abigail.” 

Abigail's eyes became dark and cold, her expression hollow with heartbreak. She breathlessly whispered “I'm sorry” as she hurriedly pulled herself off of John's cot. She didn't look back while she pushed through the heavy canvas tent flaps. John sighed wearily as his head fell forward into his open palms. He should not have done that. Arthur's voice filled his head.

_'...the moment you find yourself back in camp, you are telling Abigail that you love her.'_

John pulled himself to his feet and clumsily pulled his shirt back on. Pain shot through his shoulder as he picked up the bucket of water from the dirt packed floor. Steeling himself, he pushed his way through the opening of his tent. Jack was standing a few feet away. The little boy stared up at John, eyes wide and glistening, his ill-fitting coat hanging from his skinny bones. Fuck. Of course he'd been listening in. The boy was always under John's feet. “Quit following me around and tend to your mother,” The order was barked out to the boy with a malicious snarl that sent Jack scrambling.

_'...You are telling Jack that you are proud that he’s your son...'_

John limped slowly. His legs were stiff and just barely capable of supporting the weight of his body. It required the sum of his concentration to remain upright as John paced to the lake's edge, water slopping from the bucket and soaking the cuffs of his jeans with each misstep. Guilt strangled him as the tears welling up in his eyes threatened to escape. He couldn't let his emotions continue to make him lash out like this. He had to put on a brave face, had to act like a man. There were three very simple things expected of him. How badly was he planning to fuck everything up? 

_'...and you are moving them into your lodgings with you.'_

John hadn't seen Arthur since parting ways at Compson's stead. It wasn't uncommon for Arthur to take off for long periods, the worrying part was the unpredictability of his schedule. There was a constant tick in the back of his mind reminding John that his time was finite. Fear prickled at the base of his neck and he desperately hoped that he'd find a way to smooth things over with his family before Arthur made his way back to camp. 

_'Every night that I’m in camp, you will wait until folk have fallen asleep...'_

To escape the sinister torment of his own thoughts John heaved his broken body at every chore he could manage. He kept his head down, his conversations short, and his hands occupied until it was his turn to take guard duty. It was no use. John was catching glimpses of Arthur's phantom visage in the corner of his eye all day long. He could feel his heart jumping in his throat; anxiety was just as sure to kill him as Arthur himself. 

_'...then you will make your way to my cot...'_

No matter how diligently John threw himself into camp labour he could not keep his gaze from settling on Arthur's empty cot. 

_'...and offer me your mouth.'_

The man must be out of his damn mind if he thinks no one would notice John dropping to his knees inside of Arthur's open-air sleeping quarters. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted the gang to catch John pawing at Arthur's sleeping body and lynch him. 

John's cock twitched at the thought of servicing Arthur right there in camp. The warmth and need that coiled in his stomach flushed his face with shame. John began throwing the axe into the logs he was cutting with furious intensity as the hatred he felt towards himself bubbled up to the surface; the metal of the axe burrowing into the rough-cut wood with a loud, dull _thunk._

 _Thunk._  
He was a disgusting piece of trash, pining for the touch of another man. 

_Thunk._  
A man that had been ready to end John's life on a whim, no less. 

_Thunk._  
A man that would kill him today for his inability to follow orders. 

_Thunk._  
Simple.

 _Thunk._  
Fucking.

 _Thunk._  
Orders.

 _Thunk._  
Did he think this was a game? 

_Thunk._  
God, how fucking stupid could he be?

Each swing of the axe became more erratic and sloppy until John inevitably missed his mark and stumbled forward with the uncontrolled inertia, falling into the pile of roughly split firewood. 

“Jesus, Marston. Keep carrying on like this and you're liable to cut your foot off.” Molly O'Shea called out from somewhere behind him. She had closed her silver compact and moved towards John, offering a hand to the broken pile of wood and flesh. John glared as he pushed her hand away. More pity for the parasite called John Marston; he couldn't stand it. 

“Jus' sore, is all. Trying not to think about it.” John couldn't meet her gaze.

“You've been acting like a lunatic since you got back, John. You're making Dutch worry. Dutch doesn't need another thing troubling his mind. Clean yourself up, son.” With that she retreated towards the tent which her and Dutch shared. The focus of John's hatred briefly shifted from himself on to the red-headed woman. He resented Molly, more so when she spoke to him as though she were his superior. 

Still, she wasn't wrong. John _was_ behaving like a lunatic. He had to pull himself together.

After lifting himself back on to his feet and brushing away the wood chips from his clothing, John collected his rifle and headed into the surrounding brush to relieve Williamson from guard. Bill eyed him suspiciously, briefly questioning whether or not the young man was capable of watching over the camp. He decided against expressing as much, lest Bill miss the opportunity to begin plying his sun-parched throat with beer ahead of schedule. With a mumbled “thanks” he headed off in the direction of the bottle crates. John settled himself against a tree, or rather tried to, pulling away and hissing sharply as the rough bark set his back alight. “Fucking idiot” he spat out at himself. 

John felt like a ghost as unsteady feet carried him along the familiar pathways around the camp. Guard duty offered him a chance to fully face the swirling cacophony of thoughts pounding in his head, what little comfort that actually provided. Each muscle in his body tensed in turn as he re-lived every moment he'd spent in that dark basement. The throbbing ache of his bruises, cuts, and burns paled in the white-hot light cast by the blinding agony that was burning in his heart. The secret he'd guarded for well over a decade had been torn from him; the man he loved had ripped him into tattered shreds of his former self. And now? Now he was expected to carry on as though nothing had changed. Well, almost nothing. Arthur had been deadly clear about the changes he'd expected to see from John. The orders seemed simple at first. He was trying, he was; desperately, but John was lost as to how he was supposed to manifest these changes in his daily life. 

_'Not by yelling at your wife, idiot. That's a start. You stupid fuck._ ' John chastised himself. He had to fix this. He had to beg Abigail's forgiveness and had to make time for Jack, had to move them in to his tent. It seemed straightforward enough but the words and actions John needed to take were lost through the hazy fog recent trauma had cast over him. Now, through his own choices he found himself stuck on guard for the remaining hours of the day with no chance to right these wrongs before another night had passed. What if Arthur rode in to camp tonight? 

_'Stupid, worthless fuck.'_ John continued berating himself, the voice inside of his head becoming increasingly hostile.

Well, at least on guard he was armed. If he saw Arthur's mount in the distance he'd have the chance to swallow his own barrel and end things quickly. End things before Arthur could piece together what a colossal failure he was; before Arthur could drag him out of camp and finish him off himself. John blinked rapidly as the tears he'd been carrying all afternoon finally broke free. 

And why should he take the easy way out? Why did he think that he deserved anything better than what Arthur had planned for him? He was a sick, sick man after all; a worthless drain on everyone around him. Always had been. 

Should he run? He'd been back at camp for two days, why _hadn't_ he run? 

After hours of pacing and dwelling, John conceded that the best thing he could do is exactly as he'd been told, and as quickly as possible. 

_'If you can manage that, you fucking moron._ '


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to make things right between himself and Abigail.

John was barely on his feet when Javier relieved him of his post. He'd made it through the night; still no sign of Arthur, _still a chance to make things right._ He went directly to the shoddy lean-to Abigail and Jack shared. She was sleeping, of course. Everyone was. John debated waiting until morning but decided against it. Too much time had passed already.

“Abigail,” his voice came out with more gravel than usual. He knelt down beside her, her dark bun just protruding past the edges of her blanket. He placed a hand on her and took a slow, shaky breath. “Abigail, please...”

“J-john?” He voice was heavy with sleep. “John, go away.” She pulled the blankets tighter around herself. 

“Please, Abigail. I need to talk to you.” He shook her gently.

“John Marston, get your hands off of me. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“No!” The desperation in his voice made the cry come out much louder than he'd meant. John froze and squinted his eyes in the direction of Jack's bedroll. The boy didn't appear to stir. “N-no, please, Abigail. I need to talk to you. Right now.”

Abigail sat up. “What could you possibly have to say to me, John? Decided you wanted to yell at me some more? You're a mess John, stay away from me and my boy until you clear your head.” She began to reposition herself for bed but John held on to her once more.

“Abigail, listen. Please.” His voice shook. Abigail could see the glimmer of moonlight highlighting a tear falling down John's cheek. She straitened up. 

Concern softened the edge in her voice. “What is it, John?” 

“I-I ain't been treating you right, ain't been treating the boy right.” He paused, unsure of what to say next. “Please, walk with me.”

Abigail sniffed the air. No hint of whisky hung between them, John wasn't drunk. She looked over her sleeping son and once satisfied that he hadn't been woken, nodded to John and drew herself up to her feet. The two silently made their way to a log overlooking the waterfront. Abigail placed herself delicately on the fallen tree and tucked her dress around her to ward off the cool breeze feeding in from the surface of the lake. John took a moment to admire her sharp features before taking a seat beside her. She looked out over the water in silence. 

In his early days running with the Van Der Linde's, John had been trained to hustle and con folk. He never quite had the silver tongue Dutch possessed, nor the diplomacy Hosea could utilize on a whim, but he had a way. Besides, Abigail was soft on him. Talking her into this shouldn't be too hard, he just had to separate himself from his emotions on the issue. Just another con. Just following orders. 

“I'm sorry. For earlier. I-” John paused as Abigail turned her head from the water and settled her gaze on him, “I shouldn't have placed my hands on you. Shouldn't have raised my voice to you. Ain't appropriate.”

She continued to stare in to his eyes, unblinking. 

“It also ain't appropriate for you and the boy to continue sleeping in that flimsy cover. I would like you...” He placed his hand on Abigail's knee “..I would like my _wife_ , to join me in my tent.” He smiled at her and continued. “I would like my son to join me in my tent.” 

Abigail was quiet, her mouth opened and closed repeatedly as though cycling through her thoughts in search of the right thing to express her confusion. Finally she spoke. “John, why are you doing this?” Abigail shook her head and tried to conceal her sorrow, “This ain't nothing you want.” 

“Look, you and me, it's a god damned mess. A fairytale, and it ain't even a good one.” Abigail's face fell, but John squeezed her knee and smiled again. “I ain't a fool, Abigail. I've heard the other men talk to you; Micah, Bill, it ain't right. I figure maybe if I do a better job as your husband you won't hear as much from them.” John shook a few loose locks of hair from his face and continued, pushing past his frustration with the situation. “You're my best friend, Abigail. I- I love you.” 

Abigail bit her bottom lip. John didn't give her a chance to speak. “And if not for me, or for you, please do it for the boy. It's been raining something awful and I'd like to know that he's warm and dry. I'd hate for my son to catch sick because I'm behaving like a stubborn child.”

“But John,” Abigail's eyes shifted nervously, her voice dropping to less than a whisper. “Jack's not _your son_.”

“Yes.” John reached up and placed his palm gently along the curve of Abigail's cheek, his voice was uncharacteristically soft. “He is.” 

Abigail moved her hand upwards and fit it over John's. Silence hung in the air between them for several long minutes, their eye contact unbroken. 

“If we do...” Abigail was speaking slowly, measuring each word, “...you can't go changing your mind. Y-you have to mean it, John. If we move in, if Jack gets used to being a real family with his father...”

There was a tone in her voice that inflamed John's temper. He swallowed hard and pushed his feelings down as she spoke. 

“...then you can't just take that away from him. Understand, John? You have to _mean it_.”

“I do!” John took both of Abigail's hand into his own. “I... I really do. Please, Abigail. Forgive the fool I've been. Let me make it up to you. Let me provide for you and the boy as best I can, the way I should have been doin' this whole time.”

Abigail seemed unconvinced, but the part of her that longed to give her son a real family won out. She agreed to move herself and Jack in to John's tent the following day. 

“At first light.” John's insisted.

“At first light.” Abigail pledged.

John placed a polite kiss on Abigail's lips and held her hands tightly as he repeated his thanks to her several times. It was odd behaviour, but Abigail was unaware of the desperate situation her husband found himself in and so she assigned John's strange penitence to his sincere desire to do right by her and the boy. 

John had sold his con. One of Arthur's commands had been met and for the first time since leaving the Sheriff's office in Rhodes, John slept soundly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur arrives in camp, only to be sent right back out.

Sunset painted the foggy sky with sickly hues of green and yellow, a fitting backdrop for the grimy silhouette of Annesburg on the horizon. Arthur never did much care for the town but a trader at Van Horne had insisted he would be able to find the textiles he was in search of at the Annesburg industrial supply warehouse. Seemed funny to Arthur that for all of the progress and convenience a big city boasted, Saint Denis was unable to provide him with something so basic as a bolt of canvas. 

The fabric was heavy, but Arthur's black shire barely acknowledged the weight as the bolt was secured over his rear end. He wasn't the fastest horse, no, and the rolling gait of his giant bones made for a very bumpy ride, but he was strong and sturdy. Arthur had grown quite attached to this shire since Hosea had left him in his care. Seemed odd to go this long without naming a horse so Arthur spent the trip back to Clemens Point discussing potential names with his massive companion.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

John was hauling hay to the horses when he first caught sight of Arthur's mount hitched up beside the others. He'd been preparing for the eventuality of Arthur's arrival since he himself had returned to camp, but it had done no good. Panic ebbed through his veins, his heart hammered wildly and his mouth went dry. John tossed the bale down in the centre of the horse posts and scanned his vision across camp. Nothing. 

Dizziness overtook him. Steadied against a nearby tree, John continued to seek out the familiar shadow of Arthur's bulk. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck. How had he missed Arthur's return? Had he been here long? Had he walked right past him and not noticed? John felt an absolute fool. After settling himself somewhat, John decided it best to carry on with his labours, and after a few steps past the scout fire he recognized Arthur's worn gambler peeking out from behind one of the logs at the main fire. He was leaning against it, bottle in hand, chatting with Bill and Javier. 

John stalked over to the provisions wagon and splashed his face with water from the wash barrel. His hands were shaking. Pearson shot him a concerned glance from the stew-pot. John gave him a shaken nod and the camp's cook set his attentions back to Miss Grimshaw, shrugging animatedly as he carried on his conversation with the camp's matriarch. 

John splashed his face again and began pulling in measured breaths, fighting to get his nerves under control. He couldn't let his behaviour become more erratic around Arthur, Abigail had bought his story but he hadn't actually explained his injuries to anyone else in camp. He couldn't afford to draw lines, lest the gang-members take notice and read between them. Arthur's firm, authoritative voice once more spoke inside of John's head.

_'...you will call me “Mr. Morgan” or “Sir”. That’s it.'_

John held the edges of the wash barrel and closed his eyes. He listened intently for Arthur's voice over the bustle of the camp, eventually hearing the rumbling crack of his laughter floating across the air. John looked down and saw that his knuckles were white from the strain of his tightened grip.

Arthur hadn't set any particular boundaries about how John was supposed to interact with him in camp, made no demands that he had to greet him or spend his time near the hardened outlaw. Still, John felt compelled to do something to welcome him back. 

“Alright, you horrible people. Come and get it while' it's hot!” Pearson called out, only half joking. 

John figured he'd been working long enough today to justify taking a break to eat. While he walked over to grab an empty bowl from the dish crate he got the idea to bring Arthur a serving. John ladled out two healthy portions, taking care to make certain that the older man's plate had more meat than carrots. He balanced the second bowl in his arm carefully as he brought the meal over to the fire.

As if moving on instinct Arthur drew himself up and spun around, meeting John a few steps away from the log. He smiled, blue eyes sparkling. His top lip tugged into a quick snarl before returning to the same happy visage. It made John nervous.

“Jesus, Marston. What happened to your nose?”

John stammered, completely taken aback by Arthur's jovial demeanour; he was too happy, too boisterous. Had John only imagined the predatory flash of his teeth?

“I didn't think it was possible, but...” Arthur leaned in to take a closer look, his movements comically exaggerated “Yep, you're even uglier now.”

Bill snorted a laugh from his place by the fire.

“You should take a look in the mirror!” John retorted playfully. His heart felt a bit lighter; joking with Arthur like nothing had changed between two old friends. 

That lightness in John's chest was knocked out of him as Arthur's work-hardened fist cracked across his left cheekbone. Within a flash Arthur had John's neck pinned between his bicep and forearm, the black-haired man's feet kicking into the dirt to remain underneath him as Arthur pulled him around like a doll. John's hands flew to his neck in a vain attempt to lessen the pressure of the older man's choke-hold. 

“You greasy little rat!” Arthur spat through his gritted teeth. He brought his knee up into John's stomach; once, then twice; finally shoving the man down face-first into the puddle of stew that had formed where the contents of the bowls had landed. Arthur knelt down, his weight balanced on his right knee, his right knee pressing in between John's shoulder blades. Arthur's hands were twisted into John's black hair as he mercilessly rubbed the smaller man's face into the muddy paste the stew had become. He growled something about 'not wasting food' and 'rat's eating anything' but John couldn't hear him over the slick, slopping noises of the broth and dirt Arthur was using John's face to mash together. John was certain he'd felt a rib break and had begun fading out of consciousness when someone in camp stepped up to intervene. 

“Arthur Morgan! You get off of that boy right now!” Miss Grimshaw screamed as she made her way to join the small crowd that had assembled around the commotion. “He's not well, you great ape,” she continued as she grabbed Arthur up by his ear, the large man yielding at her command with a wide grin on his face. “What has gotten in to you, boy?”

Arthur all but laughed as he raised up his hands over his head and began to walk away. “I'm sorry, Susan. M'sorry”

Miss Grimshaw moved to tend to John. He shrugged away from her care and limped off as quickly as he could to the treeline, face coated in blood, mud, and stew; eyes watering from the sting of humiliation. The fresh assault seemed to reinvigorate every injury on his body, mounting pain with each step threatening to send him in to shock. John stumbled through the dense woods for what felt like a quarter-hour before the unsteadiness in his limbs caught up with him and sent him crashing hard in to the wet ground. 

His chest racked with heavy sobbing. Rational thought had left him, the fear of Arthur leaping from the shadows in pursuit of him had pushed him to near madness. John crawled towards the closest brush he could use to conceal himself, the twisted roots in the soil slowing his motions as they dug into the bruises decorating his arms and legs. He remained deathly still, curled in on himself in the dank hollow beneath a ridge of ninebark bushes. He remained that way for hours; sobbing slowed to shaky breaths, tears long-dried, leaving clear streaks in the filth John hadn't tried to remove from his face. No one had followed him. The vivid memories of the time he had spent in the basement were his only company. The smell of rotting leaves, the darkness of the treetops – John imagined this is what it would feel like to be in his grave.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“What was that about?” A rich, heavy voice questioned Arthur as he strolled away from the scene he had caused with John. 

Arthur breathed in deeply, still smiling, and addressed Charles with a warm nod before speaking. “Ah, I don' know...” his calloused hand found the way 'round to squeeze at the nape of his neck. “...rubbed me the wrong way, a'guess.” Arthur's hand fell away from his neck as he rolled his shoulders in to a casual shrug. 

Charles stood quietly, his eyes dipping quickly over Arthur as he took stock of the man. He folded his arms, facial expression remaining unreadable.

Arthur shifted his weight, the dark penetrating gaze of the other man giving him a reason to pause. He was a perceptive man, Charles. A skilled tracker; an even better hunter, but there was no way he could possibly have figured how Arthur had spent the last handful of days. He couldn't have connected John's condition to Arthur's unruly behaviour, so Arthur kept his smile affixed as he reached forward to place a hand on Charles' shoulder. “You know, Charles. I could really use a hand with a little project of mine. Could you spare an hour or so to help me this afternoon?”

Curiosity caused Charles' brow to crook almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”

“Great. I gotta grab some supplies off of my horse, but swing on by my cot when you're able.”

Arthur's boots thudded into the packed dirt rhythmically as he paced over to the hitching posts. That had been... well, that hadn't been good. Hitting John, rubbing his face into the ground like a scolded puppy, _that_ had been _great_ ; but Arthur knew he couldn't carry on behaving that way without causing some unnecessary rifts here in camp. Arthur had himself convinced that he'd be able to keep his new lust for harming the boy under control, but it hadn't been a full minute of talking to John before the demon inside of Arthur had clawed it's way to the surface. This was going to be a problem. 

Arthur shifted his hips as he walked, attempting to reduce the contact between the rough fabric of his union suit and his half-hard cock. 

Ah yes, this was going to be a problem. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“That should do it.” Charles supplied in his even, matter-of-fact tone. 

“Yep, I reckon it should. Thank you, Charles.”

A slow nod was the last contribution Charles made to their conversation as he slipped out from inside the newly hung canvas surrounding the wagon's pole-structure. The fabric was heavy and had been difficult to hang but the two men were able to enclose Arthur's sleeping space with canvas walls, upon completion creating a tent almost rivalling Dutch's. Arthur had given Charles some non-committal explanation about the wind off of the lake waking him up through the night but the words hung in the air, odd and uncomfortable. Both Arthur and Charles knew there was no actual need for Arthur to explain himself, Arthur wondered if the stoic man assisting him doubted the validity of his statement. He made a mental note to bring something of worth to Charles as a 'thank you' in the near future. 

Arthur pulled his suspenders from his shoulders and kicked off his boots as he settled down on his cot. It had been a long while since he'd opted for anything more private than his open-air accommodations; hadn't really felt any need for it since Mary and himself had parted ways. Arthur's heart felt a pang of despair at the thought. He laid back into his cot, fingers settling entwined behind him to cradle the back of his head, and rested his eyes. 

“Arthur, are you in there?”

“Yes, Abigail. Come on in.” Arthur did his best to hide his impatience. He hadn't spoken with the woman since she'd asked him to go find her husband. In light of the events of the past few days, that almost felt like a lifetime ago. He sat up with a long sigh and watched her closely as she navigated the loosely strung flaps defining the entrance of Arthur's new tent. She wrung her hands as her eyes flitted around the enclosure. 

“Yes, Miss Roberts? How can I help you today?”

Abigail's features were pinched, displaying a mix of emotions Arthur couldn't quite identify. She seemed nervous, sure, but there was something else there. Fear? Had John told her what had happened between the two men? Arthur's mouth went dry with the sudden realization that he hadn't actually _commanded_ John to keep their new arrangement quiet. “Abigail?”

“Arthur, I... I heard about the scuffle between you and John at the fire today.” She started, voice strained. “I know you just got back, I know you didn't know, but John? John's hurt. He's hurt real bad, Arthur.” She paused, looking down and smoothing the front of her dress with both hands. “You gotta- I, I need you to go easy on him. He's not willing to show Miss Grimshaw his injuries, stubborn fool he is, so I've been tending to him myself. They're bad, Arthur.”

Arthur leaned forward to gather up his satchel from the table beside his cot. Abigail stood quietly, watching over him as he felt around inside of the soft-worn leather. He fished out a few tonics and a salve and held them up to her. “This what you're in need of?”

“No, no...” she gave him a weak smile, “we're fairly well stocked here in camp these past few days. It's just-” Arthur stood and pressed the bottles into Abigail's hands all the same, she bit her lip and nodded in thanks. 

“It's just what, Abigail?”

“I ain't seen John at all today, folk told me he'd taken off in to the trees after your... whatever that was. Hasn't been seen since.” Her gaze was firmly affixed to the bottles she was fidgeting with. “His wounds, you see, they're due for cleaning. Could you, could you please track him? Bring him back safe?”

Arthur placed his hand on the woman's right shoulder, her slender bones completely enveloped in the thick slab of calloused flesh. She jumped a little as he moved his left hand under her jaw and guided her face upwards to make eye contact. He was still for a moment, taking in the beauty of her face as her eyes darted around unsure of what to do. “You really do love him, don't you, Abigail?”

“Y-yes. Of course I do.” her voice was barely audible.

Arthur could sense the animal inside of him waking up, the predatory urge for control rising in his chest as his lips curled back into a malicious bearing of teeth. He leaned his face in closer, now able to feel the anxiety his proximity was inciting in the tiny woman. “Are you and John thinking about making Jack a little brother anytime soon?”

The pale skin of Abigail's' face flushed fiercely, she stared at Arthur with incredulity. “I... well,”

“Just thinkin', what with you guys moving into his tent with him. Seems like as good a time as any to become a mom again, no?” Arthur's eye shone while he relished in the array of emotions playing out across Abigail's face as she floundered to devise an answer. As suddenly as he had grabbed her, he was letting go again. Stepping back to create distance, allowing the tension to float away in the air between them. Abigail was trembling. “I'll go find him, Abigail. He'll be fine.”

As Abigail's grey dress disappeared behind his new canvas, Arthur considered that perhaps the private information he'd gleaned from John could be used to provoke anguish from an entirely different breed of prey. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur collects John from the woods.
> 
> I rewrote this chapter after deleting it a few days ago. My apologies to anyone who read the first one.

Seemed to Arthur that the best way to start tracking John would be to ask some of the other folk which direction he'd headed in. Susan, Arthur figured, would be the best source. The sky was still light so she was easy to find, her normal routine had her aiding with the washing behind the provisions' wagon. She tucked her cloth away neatly and stepped back from the counter, leaving the remainder of the work to Tilly and Karen. The two women could be heard complaining amongst themselves as Arthur and Susan walked away together.

“Mr. Morgan, we've got more than enough monsters out there trying to kill our people without us doing each other in.” Miss Grimshaw pushed away the strands of hair that had worked themselves loose over her forehead as she spoke, her words laden with exasperation. “What on earth has gotten in to you?”

“I'm sorry, Ma'am. Truly. It's just-” Arthur sighed dramatically “well, you know how that boy can get under my skin. Seems like he's spent the better part of his life honing the skill.” 

Susan hummed in acknowledgement, her tone making it clear that she had no intention of writing the incident off as a mere act of 'boys will be boys'.

“Look, I'm hoping you can show me which direction John took off in. Figure if I can find him I can make it up to-”

“ _If he's still breathing_.” She cut in fiercely. “I meant what I had said, Arthur. _He isn't well_. He came back to us a few days ago, seemed as though he could barely stand. Spent the first two days in his tent, burning through our medical supplies.” A terse frown forced her thin lips together. 

“Jesus.” Arthur furrowed his brow into a worried expression. “Did he say what had happened to him?”

“Not to me, no...” Assuming that the concern in Arthur's voice was for his brother's well-being, Susan's icy demeanour began to thaw. “Abigail mentioned something about a gang in these parts, the 'Raiders, I believe. He's been tight lipped about the whole thing, poor kid seems terrified.”

“But not so terrified as to warn Dutch? What if he lead these bastards right to us?”

“I don't know, Arthur. Here,” She gestured to an obvious indentation in the treeline, “he went through here. When you find him, maybe you can get through to him; find out what he knows. Dutch has been stirred up about the whole thing, especially after losing Sean. Seeing our boys hurt, killed... it's...” Susan's voice caught in her throat. Arthur had only on rare occasion seen the composure of their gang's firecracker matriarch falter. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, hey now. C'mon. It's been a rough couple months, I know it has. Don't lose faith yet. I'm here, I ain't gonna let another bad thing happen. I'm going to go find John, bring him back safe, and we're going to figure out this mess. All of us, together. We'll make it through just fine, Miss Grimshaw.”

The damp sorrow in Miss Grimshaw's eyes traced over the muscle and sinew of the man standing before her; the brick foundation that this gang depended upon. Arthur smiled warmly, pulled her into his arms and as he held her she couldn't help but admire the strength and kindness of the man she had watched grow before her own eyes; she liked to think that some of the goodness, some of the warmth in his soul had been placed there through her own hard work. Miss Grimshaw breathed in deeply as her composure returned to her, here, safe in the thick arms of her gang's stalwart enforcer. After a moment she pulled away and thanked Arthur, wishing him luck as she straightened out her bodice and departed towards the centre of camp. 

The trail was sloppy. It was clear John was having difficulty walking as he had made his way through the brush. Even at Arthur's stealthiest pace it hadn't been much more than twenty minutes before he spotted a dark figure curled up at the base of some bushes. He studied the creature and after a couple moments without movement, the broad-shouldered cowboy decided to sidle up on it.

It was John, alright, clearly recognizable even underneath all of the dried filth caked onto his face. Arthur had managed to get quite close without causing the younger man to stir. Panic tugged at his chest until he spied the undeniable shift of John's jacket indicating the slight motion of his lungs pulling in a shallow breath. 

The sight was pitiable, to say the least; dried bits of stew crusted in black hair, grey scales appearing where streaks of mud had been left to dry. Pearson had served stew fairly early that afternoon so Arthur figured that John had been wallowing here for six hours or more. Must not have been getting much sleep these past few days if a sparse ridge of bushes was comfortable enough to call a bed. 

Arthur lit a cigarette as he considered the best way to wake this miserable creature. Shouldn't fire his pistol, noise like that this close to camp and you could count on their guard to come stalking along. No sense hitting him, state he's in any firm touch would make him whimper. He didn't necessarily have to hurt the boy, but he wanted to make certain the first thing on John's mind when he drifted back in to consciousness was Arthur's ownership of him. He mulled over the best ways to accomplish this while working his cigarette down to a nub. 

The sky was only just on the verge of darkening, the filter of the forest canopy creating an unsettling and gloomy atmosphere perfectly matched to the ominous overture sung by the wind in the leaves above. Arthur tossed his cigarette and slid his hand into the opening of his jeans. He worked his limp cock free from behind the layers of fabric, holding himself in one hand and hooking the thumb of the other behind a clasp connecting his suspenders to the border of his denim. A slight smirk played across his lip as Arthur bid himself to relax.

The warm stream of piss hit John's cheekbone in the same place the most recent blow from Arthur's fist had landed. John's hands flew up instinctively, eyes blazing with the fire of self-preservation. They were met with familiar deep pools of blue; the cold water of Arthur's stare dousing the flame of defiance immediately. John's eyes and hands both lowered to the ground, the boy remaining perfectly still as Arthur continued to empty his bladder.

“Mmmm,” Arthur hummed. “That's good, boy. Don't fight it. This is what you _deserve_.” 

The hot liquid saturated the dirt masking John's face, breaking chunks off and sending them downwards as it soaked the lower tips of his hair, the fabric of his shirt, his jacket, and eventually his pants. John felt ill as the fluid settled in spaces between himself and the ground, cooling in pools around his skin. The acrid scent hung heavy in the air, like steam or fog. John's nose stung but it was so much worse when he tried to breathe through his mouth instead. 

Arthur tucked himself back in to his pants. “What are you doing hiding out here in the woods, boy? You're worry'n folk.”

John remained motionless, he couldn't bring himself to look up and face the man towering above him. Arthur must have heard from the others about Abigail moving in to his tent by now; must have heard that it happened this morning and not the day John got back like Arthur had instructed. Late wasn't good enough, it seemed.

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Arthur pulled his Schofield from it's holster. His thumb played at the hammer as he ran the open tip of the barrel across John's cheek. Arthur playfully flicked some of the remaining scales of dirt off of his face, John flinching slightly with each sudden twist of the older man's wrist. Arthur noticed the boy had begun shaking.

“You cold, Marston?” Amusement was evident in Arthur's tone as he affectionately ran the barrel of his revolver across John's cheeks in long, gentle strokes. He took pleasure in watching his pet tense up with each movement of his hand; not quite flinching, not quite pulling away, but _almost_. John's eyes remained firmly fixated on his own belt buckle. “You hearin' me, boy?”

“I'm sorry...” John whispered quietly, shrinking in on himself.

“Speak up, boy.” The edge developing in Arthur's voice left no space for playfulness. He tapped the revolver against the side of John's cheek in time with each syllable, “Can't quite hear you.” 

John's voice cracked as his words tumbled out of him in a rambling plea. “I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan. I'm so fucking sorry. I-” 

Arthur cut him off with a barked command, demanding John open his mouth.

John's head lifted up, moist eyes wild with fear. His sight shifted between Arthur's stone face and the revolver in his hand. “S-sir?”

“Up. On your knees. Open your mouth.” Gruff, no hint of warmth. 

The stiffness in John's muscles screamed at him as he shuffled to change position, his movements were accentuated with soggy sounds he refused to think about. John's bottom lip quivered before he willed his mouth to open, dry lips hesitantly parted to expose his bottom teeth and the inside of his split lip. His eyes fluttered closed as he weakly slid his bruised tongue out in offering. A tear broke loose and fell down his cheek.

Cold steel settled gently on his tongue, resting for a moment before the barrel's opening glided toward the back of his throat. The hard ridge of the sight scraped against the tissues pinned to the roof of John's mouth. The barrel stopped just short of making him gag. Each second felt longer than the one preceding it as John counted down the last moments of his life. He fought against his shuddering body, trying to keep his head still in case he somehow managed to fuck up Arthur's aim. It would be a terrible death if the shot wasn't perfectly clean. 

Arthur savoured the palpable terror rolling off of the man kneeling before him, relished in the disgusting, trembling mess he'd made of John. He wasn't broken, not quite yet, but Arthur had decided before leaving Comston's Stead that he was going to make the time to tame his boy completely.

There was no click of the hammer being pulled back, Arthur's fingers hadn't moved at all. John didn't know what to make of it. Time continued crawling forward. 

“Well?” Arthur's drawl dragged the word out slowly.

John pulled in a shaky breath and opened his eyes, meeting Arthur's expectant gaze with confusion. 

“Well...” Arthur began to slide the revolver out of John's mouth, only to slip it right back in to place. Arthur had pumped the barrel back and forth in John's mouth several times until his black eyebrows arched upwards in surprise, indicating that he finally grasped what the older outlaw was expecting. 

John began working his mouth over the elegantly engraved barrel of Arthur's gun. The low growl that tumbled from Arthur's mouth replaced the younger man's uncertainty with enthusiasm. John kept his eyes on Arthur's as he treated the steel intrusion to the same eager tonguing and suction that he had used on Arthur's cock back in that old abandoned house. Drool was pouring down his chin by the time Arthur spoke again.

“Susan said you came back to camp terrified.” John paused and held Arthur's gaze. “You afraid of me, Boy?”

Instead of a proper response, John's eyes fell back down to the ground and he continued treating the revolver as an effigy of Arthur's cock. He could feel Arthur's stare burning in to the top of his head. 

“I want you to choke yourself on it, John.” Arthur's voice was much gentler now, but that made his command no less urgent. 

It was going to hurt. The sight had already torn up the roof of John's mouth, adding the fresh coppery taste of his blood to the mixture of burnt carbon, oil, and steel. The thought of what it could do to his muscles as they spasmed around it gave him pause, but not for long. He knew better than to ignore an order from the sandy-haired outlaw. John shifted his weight and tried his best to relax as he leaned forward to take the barrel further down the back of his throat. The sensation was startling, nothing like the fingers or flesh he'd sampled before. The metal sent his throat in to violent convulsions, forcing his mouth off of it entirely. The sharp edges of the protruding sight sliced his mouth deeply, leaving John spitting out and coughing up blood as he braced himself against falling.

Arthur's eyes were transfixed on the younger man, taking in the sight of him struggling to calm himself. Arthur tapped the barrel against the side of John's cheek. 

“P-please...” John's hands flew up to Arthur's thighs in a pleading gesture to match his words, one which earned his face a rough meeting with the back of Arthur's free hand. 

“Suck it, boy.”

John fixed his balance as he returned to a kneeling position and gingerly accepted the steel surrogate back in to his mouth. He began slowly again, trying his best to showcase his tonguesmanship to Arthur in a desperate bid to convince the man to replace the cold steel barrel with his own warm flesh. The unmistakable 'click' of the hammer pull cocking the revolver rang in John's ears. 

“Choke yourself on my gun, John.” Slow, dangerous.

Tears, drool, and blood all poured down John's face while he steeled himself against another violent reaction. He leaned forward to accept the barrel down the back of his throat. It took every ounce of concentration his exhausted, battered body could muster, but, as the steel pressed past the reactive ring of smooth muscles in his throat, John was rewarded with a sense of relief; _he could do this_. He proceeded to make the wettest, loudest, sloppiest choking noises he could manage as he deep-throated the opening of the barrel, showing Arthur with pride that he could follow orders. 

“God-damn,” Arthur sneered, “Why you riding with us, huh? You coulda' made a lot more money working the hotels', Marston.” 

John shut his eyes, his motions slowing as a heated flush rose in his cheeks. 

“No, no... I mean it Johnny. You're real good. Shit, I might march you in to town and put you to work myself.” 

He was joking, or at least John hoped he was. Still, being put on his knees in front of strange men, being forced to serve them at Arthur's command... John could feel himself twitching in his wet jeans. ' _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ ', he thought. A small groan escaped from his lips. 

Arthur's eyebrows arched upwards, his turn to be surprised. “You like that idea, you fucking worm? Should I dress you up all pretty like one of Dutch's _other_ workin' girls?” Arthur didn't wait for a response. “Get up on your feet.” He growled. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Arthur holstered his gun, his predatory gaze fixated on his boy's every move. John was struggling to get himself standing. He reached his hand out automatically as he faltered, a sight that made Arthur snort and turn his back. “I ain't touching you, you're _disgusting_.” The sincere revulsion in Arthur's voice gutted John. 

Arthur pulled his rope from his hip. He punched a hole in it and waited patiently for John to appear at his side. With an expert flick of his wrist Arthur's loop landed over John's head, another tug cinching the rope around the slender white neck hiding beneath matted black hair. 

A faint squeak tumbled from John's lips as his hands flew up to the rope constricting around his throat. It wasn't tight, his fingertips slipped easily between the rough fibres and his skin, but it was more than sufficient to flood his mind with memories of the terror he had felt the day Dutch and Hosea had rescued him. For years after joining the gang John had been plagued by nightmares of hanging, vivid terrors of the rope biting in to his neck as he thrashed around helplessly. Arthur, John knew, was completely aware of those dreams; was completely aware of that fear and it was clear that he had no qualms using it to enforce John's subservience. 

“Get your hands away from my rope, boy, and keep up.” Arthur snarled as he set a steady pace through the treeline. There were no paths to follow so John kept close and fought the urge to brace the rope each time the terrain got particularly challenging. It was humiliating, following Arthur through the woods like an obedient little pup. When they breached the treeline he was grateful to see that they were no where near camp. That feeling faded quickly once he spotted the bank of the lake. John's feet froze in place. 

Arthur felt resistance on the lead and without bothering to look back he gave the rope a sharp tug. John's uneven steps slapped into the gravel of the shoreline as he stumbled. “Move.” Arthur ordered, raising the rope up in a silent threat.

“Arth-” A harder tug on the rope sent John tumbling down on to his knees. 

“What did you jus' say?” Arthur demanded.

“M-Mister...” John panted through the tightness surrounding his throat, his hands grasping towards but not daring to touch the rope. Panic began racking the young man with convulsions. “Mister M-morgan, please... M'sorry... I-”

Arthur squatted down to John's level, eyes holding contact as he brushed his fingertips across the hitch on the smaller man's neck. “You watch your mouth, boy.” Arthur warned as nimble fingers created just enough slack for John to breathe comfortably. 

“You didn't tell anyone about what I did to you? About the marks on your back?”

“No. Were you expect'in me to?”

“No, no...” Arthur trailed off in thought. “Abigail said you refused to let Susan look you over. Why?”

John opened his mouth and closed it again quickly. He rocked back and forth slightly, his hands fidgeting on his thighs as he thought carefully about his answer. 

“John?” Arthur began curling up the lengths of his rope into loose loops in his hand, shortening the slack between him and John with each pass. Another silent threat. 

John shifted his weight uncomfortably as the rough ground pricked at his shins. “She's seen all kinds of injury over the years, seen all the damage men have done to our girls. I was afraid she'd know what had been done to me if she got a good enough look.” Heat returned to John's cheeks as thoughts of his injuries, thoughts of what Arthur had done to him, played out in his mind. “A beating, sure, but I wasn't quite ready to make up an explanation for... uh, for..." John cleared his throat "... _that_.”

Arthur rocked on his heels for a moment, mulling over John's words. He stood, beckoning John to follow suit. The two men moved towards the water, Arthur still leading John with the lasso. 

“Strip.” Arthur supplied casually as he settled himself on a clean rock along the water's edge. He lit a cigarette and followed the young man's movements with a hungry stare.

John reached for the rope only to be stopped by the disapproving click of Arthur's tongue. His hands moved downwards to pull at his jacket instead. He peeled out of his clothing, sitting down on the rough gravel to tug his boots off before proceeding to wriggle out of his jeans. The sky had darkened significantly in the time since Arthur had found him, the last streaks of daylight bounced off of the water and danced over the contours of John's pale frame as he stood on the banks completely naked. He wrung his hands together in front of himself to obscure his limp cock in a show of modesty. It wasn't until now that John realized Arthur had pulled out his journal. 

“Raise your arms” Arthur said with disinterest. He kept his gaze downwards as he furiously scribbled on the paper.

John raised his arms above his head. His desperate need to please Arthur lead John to thrust them high in to the air, an uncomfortable and impractical choice. After minutes passed his arms began to ache from the awkward position. A few more minutes slipped by and the strain made them shake. Arthur hadn't so much as glanced in John's direction. John lowered his arms.

Arthur yanked the rope violently, sending John's naked body crashing sloppily against the rocky shore bed. “I tell you to drop your arms?" A piercing glare shone out from behind Arthur's sandy locks. "On your hands and knees, boy. Crawl to me.” 

With pain hindering his motions, John began a slow crawl through the uneven gravel. Arthur could hear John gasp when a particularly sharp rock jabbed in to his knee. 

Arthur was seated with his legs splayed open carelessly. When John reached the space in front of Arthur, he placed his head between Arthur's boots, his forehead resting on the back of the hands he'd pressed flat to the ground. Seemed like a prefect position for a kicked pup, John figured, silently resenting every moment he spent with his neck in a rope.

“You spit blood on my boot earlier.” Arthur said, moving his left toe closer towards the dark mess of hair bowed down low at his feet. “When you spit my revolver out of your mouth. See?” 

John glanced up. Sure enough, the silver tip of Arthur's boot had a splatter of fresh blood beginning to dry on it. 

“You gonna do something about your mess, boy? I just bought these boots – weren't cheap.”

John lifted himself to his knees and moved his hands in place to pull Arthur's boot off, only to have Arthur shake his foot loose from John's grip. Arthur's right boot caught a few of John's spindly fingers and ground them hard in to the gravel until the slender man cried out in anguish. 

“No. No I don't think so, boy. Use your mouth, Johnny, lick my boots clean. I wanna see my reflection in that toe when you're done, understood?”

The flesh hanging between John's thighs began to thicken as he positioned himself down onto his elbows, lowering his head even further as he snaked his tongue out over the cool metal-covered tip of Arthur's boot. He was disgusted with himself, his ass up in the air like a bitch begging to be bred. If any stranger happened upon them he'd sooner eat his own bullet than meet their eye, but there was no denying the excitement John felt down there on the ground. ' _Where dirt belongs'_ , he thought to himself as he swiped the length of his tongue back and forth over the gummy splatter of his own blood on Arthur's boot-cap. 

A lifetime of fighting to prove his worth and here John was, naked, filthy, on his knees in wet gravel, grovelling at the feet of another man. If this were any other situation, any other man, John would have already pulled a knife and stuck the bastard like a pig. But this was different, this was _Arthur Morgan_ , the man John had laid awake in his tent fantasizing about for as long as he'd had any interest in his own cock. This was his big brother, his mentor, his protector, his guide, and now John was helplessly bound to him, a slave to his whims. 

Arthur couldn't tear his eyes away as the younger man sucked the blood and grime off of his boot. He could scarcely believe how compliant John had been so far. As he revelled in the sight of the man's bobbing head, Arthur wondered just how far he could push his new plaything. The icy tendrils of Arthur's savage appetites worked their way up his spine as he watched this pale wretch eagerly debase himself. John lifted his head and moved towards Arthur's right boot, glancing up at Arthur shyly before lowering himself back down and continuing his work.

“That's real good, boy. Shine 'em up real nice for me now.” Arthur's tone was rich with bad intentions.

“Yes, sir.” John breathed between long licks and exaggerated kisses, teasing and toying with the metal and leather as if it were Arthur's very own skin. His cock had grown to size and he was subtly rubbing himself between his thighs and stomach as he lost himself in his task.

The older man ordered John to sit up, humming thoughtfully as he spied the stiffness protruding from his body. Arthur stood from the rock he'd been seated on and tucked the tip of his boot up underneath John's balls. “Rub yourself against me.”

Another groan escaped John's lips as he rocked his hips forward, pressing his hard cock against the rough stitches texturing Arthur's boot. Arthur flexed his foot from inside of the supple leather, pressing his metal tip up between John's cheeks. John adjusted himself, guiding the pointed cap to press firmly against his hole with each movement of Arthur's foot. John continued humping Arthur's boot, lust and need reducing him to little more than a heated animal. He began panting as he pursued the merciless friction of the leather against his cock. Arthur matched the rhythm of John's rocking hips, the pointed tip of his boot probing more aggressively with each pass as John brought himself closer towards his orgasm. His breathing had become peppered with soft, desperate moans as he felt his body give in to his own release. John fell forward against Arthur's leg, gripping it tightly to hold himself up as rolling waves of gratification left him shuddering. 

“You fucking mongrel!” Arthur snarled, kneeing John backwards as he pulled his foot up from underneath the cleft of the younger man's ass. He inspected his leg, shiny wet streaks of John's cum were visible along the front of his boot, ending in the fabric of his jeans. Rage pounded in Arthur's chest. “What in the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking _mutt?_ "

John had curled up in on himself, sheltering his head and neck with one arm while the other protected his body. “I'm sorry, sir. I-”

“Did I fucking tell you to get off on me? Did I give you permission to make a fucking mess all over my leg?” Bits of saliva were flung from the corners of Arthur's mouth as he screamed at the cowering mess shaking on the ground below. 

“N-no, sir. You didn't, M'sorry, I'm so s-” Broken gasps and gags replaced John's pleas as Arthur began strangling him with the rope. John's fingers dug frantically in to the skin of his neck as his widened eyes pleaded with Arthur for mercy. 

“No, _I didn't_. You fucking degenerate...” Arthur brought his knee up and slammed it into John's face, rearranging the recently shattered cartilage of his nose. “...look at this mess! Look at this fucking mess!” 

John was on his back, still clawing at the rope as he thrashed around in the gravel. Arthur kicked John again, twice in his ribs, the third blow landing in his side. He dropped his heel into the meat of John's thigh and ground his full weight into it as he bent forward to loosen the rope. John's cough was ghastly as his burning lungs fought to clear the blood out of his esophagus. 

“Get up, get the fuck up on to your hands and knees.” Arthur demanded, still screaming. He kicked the dark haired man a fourth time, sending him crashing back to the ground. Arthur pulled his suspenders off and folded them over into his hand before wielding them against John's bare flesh. The high pitched whistle of the metal clasps cutting the air was replaced with a high pitched scream as they bit into John's skin. The welts bled immediately, feeding Arthur's bloodlust with each snap of the straps. Arthur continued to whip John with savage ferocity, ignoring the filthy wretch as he begged Arthur between broken sobs to show him mercy. John's cries became unintelligible as he tried to crawl away from the assault. Arthur had lost count of the blows long before he decided John had had enough. 

**************

John was barely conscious when Arthur removed the rope from his neck, but he could feel the larger man hauling him up over his shoulder. After a few steps he could feel himself being thrown down, the cold rush of water surrounding him snapping John back to full attention. Arthur had tossed him in to the lake. 

A blind panic overtook John as he thrashed about, half crawling, half running as he stumbled towards the shore. Arthur was standing at the water's edge watching him, arms folded, the woven straps of his suspenders hanging from the pocket he'd tucked them in to. 

“Clean yourself up, John.” Arthur called out as he tossed a rag at the other man. “Flattered as I am that you would rather head back to camp wearing my piss, I don't think Abigail would appreciate you stinking up her new tent. Scrub up."

Clearly Arthur had no intention of letting him leave the water, so John sat himself in the sandy shoal of the gravel beach. The water was barely up to his stomach, shallow enough that his fears became somewhat manageable. As John bathed, the older man removed his pants and threw them in to the water beside him. “Clean your mess off of my jeans, John.” Seemingly as an afterthought, Arthur began kicking John's clothes towards him. 

Arthur settled himself down on a nearby patch of soft grasses and returned to scribbling in his journal. He worked his way through three smokes and a third 'a bottle of whisky before John stood and approached the shore. “You all done then?”

John nodded, a slight shiver as the cool evening breeze blew past him. Arthur gestured for him to approach; Arthur stood and met him half way, arm outstretched to offer John the bottle. John gratefully accepted it and sipped silently as Arthur inspected his body; poking, prodding, testing each wound and slathering the worst spots with salves. John's eyes shone with hatred as he stared off in to the distance. 

“You got something you want to say, boy?” Arthur asked absently, digging his fingernail into the broken flesh where the clasp from his suspender had gouged a hole below the crook of John's right shoulder.

John shook his head, fearful of earning another share of Arthur's anger.

The inspection continued, a calloused tip of Arthur's finger applied a generous coating of salve to the abused ring of John's opening, briefly threatening to press itself in while Arthur gauged John's reaction. John's eyes fluttered closed as he let out a pleasured sigh, the anger in his eyes muted by the time he'd opened them again. Arthur massaged John's hole gently, guiding the boy against his chest while his fingertip continued probing.

“That feels nice,” Arthur breathed heavily in to John's ear, cooing softly as he ran his other hand over the boy's stomach. John's ass had been so much hotter and tighter than any woman he'd had, if there was more time left in the day Arthur might have fucked him right here at the lakeside. “Here...” Arthur took the whisky back and pulled away, producing more little bottles from his satchel and pressing them in to John's hand, “...drink these. You need to heal up properly. You been eating much?”

“No.” John muttered quietly. 

“Sleeping?”

John shook his head.

Arthur sighed, he grabbed John by the arm and tugged him down into a seated position on an arrant log. He reached into his satchel and fished out some cans of fruit and a cloth bag of dried meats. Arthur began putting together a small fire as John chewed quietly. 

“You need to take better care of my property.” Arthur finally said as he took a seat beside John, tossing one of the better pieces of wood he'd found nearby into the flames. 

“Maybe if you didn't beat the shit out of me every ti-”

Arthur's glare was poison. John shoved more meat in to his mouth and lowered his gaze down towards the crackling fire. “I'm sorry, sir.” ' _Sir_ ' coming out as a shaky sob. 

“I _enjoy_ knocking you around, Marston.” Arthur replied, his gaze hadn't moved from John's face. Arthur reached a hand out and grabbed the boy's jaw, forcing him to turn his head and look him in the eyes “...and I'm _going to carry on enjoying you_ every chance I get.” John audibly swallowed his mouthful of chewed meat. Arthur held his gaze, soaking in the fear flickering across John's face. The world seemed to grind to a halt as Arthur's head filled with all of the beautiful screams he'd torn from the boy. John couldn't read his brother's expression as he watched clear blue eyes cloud over in a hazy storm. A cold chill began to creep up the back of John's neck.

“C'mon, that's enough, then.” Arthur spoke up abruptly, causing John to flinch violently at the erratic change of tone. Arthur laughed and tousled his black locks from a standing position. “Gather up your clothes, camp ain't too far. Put your shirt back on at least, I don't want anyone getting a good look at your back.”

John chewed back a whine and gathered up his gear, slipping on his soping wet shirt and shoving bare feet in to his boots. Arthur gathered up his effects and stomped out the coals.

“When we walk somewhere together, boy, I want you several paces behind me. Keep your head bowed, you hear? Do it right and I won't have to use this.” he said, gesturing to his lasso. 

The two men followed the shoreline back to camp without another word, John trailing behind just as Arthur had instructed him.


	5. Chapter 5

John was so wrapped up in his own thoughts he failed to realize that the chatter he heard between Abigail and Jack was coming from behind the flaps of his own tent. Abigail was seated at the end of John's cot mending a tear in one of her dresses as she watched over Jack who was cheerfully babbling to her about the adventures of the little wooden toys he'd scattered around himself on the floor. It was charming, by rights, but not in any way what John had prepared himself to face. He could see the immediate concern in Abigail's eyes when his pale visage appeared from behind the strung fabric, her brow knitted in confusion as John slipped in wearing nothing more than his boots and a partially buttoned shirt. She set her work aside and grabbed something from atop the crates in the opposite corner of the tent. 

“Jack, Jack baby would you go take this book back to Hosea please?” 

“But we're not done this one yet, Momma” Jack tossed the toys he was holding down beside the others on the floor and stared up at Abigail.

“Yes, sweetie, I know, but if you ask really nicely maybe he'll finish it with you now before bed.”

Jack's eyes went wide, “Really?!” he asked, jumping up and pulling the book from his mother's hands. 

“Only one way to find out.” She said. Within a second Jack had already headed out of the tent, the smile on Abigail's face leaving with him. She turned to John, looking him over before motioning him to sit down. His tired bones complied immediately. “Oh, John...” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tightly, the anxiety that had been building inside of her all afternoon finally abating. John winced as she brushed against some of his newest wounds. Abigail pulled away quickly.

“You're wet, John. Why are you...” She trailed off as her eyes caught sight of the new colourful shades appearing on John's face and neck. “My god...” she slipped her hands up to the buttons on John's shirt and began opening it up. Fresh bruising was forming over the bottom of his ribcage, swollen welts were visible near his shoulder and peeking out from his sides. “John... John, you foolish man, what have you done now?”

John shook his head and stood, pulling off his shirt as he moved towards the crates containing his modest wardrobe. Abigail watched on, horrified to realize the welts and split skin appeared in dozens of places across his body. “John?” she asked again, “John, what happened?”

“It...” John shuffled through his rags until he found a red union suit and a pair of clean trousers. “...it doesn't matter.” he continued searching through the box, evading eye contact. “I'm fine. I'm here, back at camp, with you and the boy, and I'm fine. Where, where are my socks?”

Abigail retrieved a box from beneath John's cot. Seems she'd been rearranging the few things John had in his tent to make herself and Jack more comfortable. John's face grew hard as he took the pair of socks Abigail offered him, looking away as he tugged them on to his feet. “I'd like you to take the cot, for now, until I can get you something better...” He looked around, suddenly ashamed of his bare home, “...get _both of you_ something better.” Finally dressed he attempted to leave the tent, only to be stopped by Abigail once more. 

“I need to clean your wounds, John.”

“They've been looked after, Abigail. I'm fine.”

“Your neck, John.” Her tone was frail. “You still got that old neckerchief laying around?” 

John stopped. She was right, no sense showing off whatever new brands of ownership Arthur had placed on his body to the rest of camp. That was why he'd sought out his union suit, after all. He turned around, the look on Abigail's face made his heart sink. She was scared. Scared of him or for him, he couldn't quite say, but it filled him with guilt all the same. He sat himself back down on the the cot in front of her. “I'm sorry, Abigail. Thank you, thank you for trying to help me.”

She placed her hand on John's thigh. After a moment of quiet she reached below the cot again and pulled out a bowl of stew, explaining that she had stashed some food away for him after the girls had told her what had taken place beside the fire. “I'm sorry it's so cold, I'd expected you back a lot sooner than this.”

“It's fine, Abigail. Really. Thank you.” He remained by her side and ate quietly while she rummaged through John's things. She managed to find the old neckerchief she'd remembered John wearing back when she'd first joined the Van Der Linde gang. It was a bit worse for wear, but as she delicately secured it around John's neck she decided it still looked rather handsome; even if it did seem silly paired with his old union suit. “Who tended to you?” She asked as John lifted the last of the stew to his mouth. “Did you let Susan clean you up finally?”

“No,” John wiped the side of his mouth on his sleeve. “Arthur helped me wash up at the lake side, he, uh, he treated the worst of them.”

“And the new ones?”

With an icy sheen on his overcast gaze, John thanked Abigail one more time, pointedly refusing to address her question. He slipped on his boots and headed out of their tent. 

Nighttime was thick in the clouds now, the sky a dark canopy without a single star. John made a stop to drop off his bowl in the wash bin and decided to grab a couple bottles of beer before making a slow and scenic trip towards the main fire. As he approached he could hear the dulcet tones of Javier's guitar underscoring the snippets of conversation, few as they were. The mood around camp had been quite sombre since the Gray's had put a bullet in Sean, Karen taking it the hardest of them all. It was a common sight these days to find her with a hand wrapped tightly on the neck of a bottle, her glassy eyes staring in to the flames without much interest in the goings-on around her. Sure enough, hers was one of the bodies tucked in beside the campfire alongside Bill, Micah, and Arthur. He could hear Micah's snake tongue rattling on about the men he'd killed in Rhodes. John considered turning back until the unmistakable blue glimmer of Arthur's eyes caught his own. He concealed a shudder.

“Heeeeeeyyy Marshton!” Karen perked up and slurred a warm greeting when John took a seat on a log beside her. “Abigails'ss been lookin' for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Jones. I was just talking with her-”

“She tell you why it was I saw her runnin' out of Morgan's fancy new tent lookin' all _bothered-like_?” Micah sneered at John, making suggestive gestures as he spoke. 

“Figures you can't recognize someone worry'n after folk,” Arthur responded in a cold, level tone, “on account of no one giving a shit about you.”

“Ohh, Morgan. You wound me. I care more about the people in this gang than you ever did.” Micah took a long drag from his cigarette and tossed it into the fire. “'Sides, I seen that ridiculous bull whip you've pinned to your hip. You leavin' us to pick up as a rancher? Or did you have to scare off some steer that's been taking interest in your newest four-legged lady love?” The ragged blonde supplied more suggestive gestures with his insult. 

“Keep on talking, Micah, and I'll be happy to show you exactly why I'm carrying it.”

“Naaah, Cowpoke. I don't think so,” Micah dug his heel into the ground hard enough to send some gravel tumbling towards the flames. “But if yer' so keen on finding yourself a whipping boy I could go get Lenny for y-”

“Shut your oily mouth, Micah. God damn.” John barked. 

“Who you think you're calling 'oily' Marston, what with that scraggly patch of hair taking over your face. 'Seen better beards on the whores in town.”

Micah chuckled to himself, the air around the fire became quiet and uneasy. 

Karen took another swig from her bottle and threw an arm around John. “S'looks nice, John. Rugged, hand'shome,” she stopped to hiccup, “I think all men look better with full beards.”

For a brief second John felt a little bashful under Karen's arm. “Figure'd it might help hide the scars, keep law from recognizing me so quick.” He explained unnecessarily, “Besides, once it's all grown in I'll look better than ever. You, Micah, well, you'll still be an ugly sum-bitch.”

Karen broke out into obnoxious laughter, her body heaving against John's. He moved her arm off of his shoulders, helping maintain her balance on the log they were sharing. John tired his best to hide just how much his body hurt. 

“You know, I kind of liked you all fresh-faced and cleaned up, John” Arthur said thoughtfully. Bill looked up from the fire, half-startled and eyeing Arthur suspiciously; Micah had a wily grin and was going to say something before Arthur cut him off to continue his thought. “Well, sure, John. If you're going around looking older, what's that mean for me?” 

“Y'can't fight time, old man.” chided Karen before succumbing to another boisterous laugh. Arthur's eyes sparkled while he laughed, his smile was bright and warm. John couldn't help staring; something about the stark contrast of Arthur's behaviour around the gang and his behaviour when he had John alone was thrilling. He willed himself to look away.

The group continued their idle chatting until eventually each party headed off for sleep, leaving John alone quietly staring at the flames as he waited for the camp to go silent. He had slid off of the log and was sitting on the ground with his back pressed up against it, elbows resting on each knee, hands entwined and hanging down limply. He let out a long, exaggerated sigh. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” John breathed out quietly to himself. He twisted his fingers together tightly while he contemplated everything Arthur had said to him out in the woods today. He had made it clear that he viewed John as a thing to be owned; ' _my property_ ', Arthur had said, and it was really hard for John to come up with any argument as to why that wasn't the case. 

John was relieved by the apparent fact that Arthur had no real intention of murdering him; he took a strange pleasure in inflicting pain on John, sure, but the man wanted to keep _his property_ in good enough shape to take the torment Arthur was so eager to hand out. A small piece of grit worked itself loose from it's spot wedged between John's teeth, must have lodged itself in there while Arthur was grinding his face in to the dirt. John spit it out on to the ground beside him, wondering just how much of Arthur's abuse he would be able to take.

One of John's hands slid up to the crook of his shoulder and found the wound Arthur had dug his fingernail into earlier. It had begun to heal up already, that potent tonic Hosea made really was something else. John forced the wound back open with his own nail. He dug in to it aggressively, eliciting a sharp pang emulating the bite of Arthur's suspender clasp. He could feel heat rising in his body as he pressed his nail in harder, the excruciating sting transforming into a tingle of arousal as it travelled from his shoulder down through his body, settling in the flesh of his cock. John wasn't sure how to feel about his body responding sexually to pain. 

More of Arthur's words filled his head and before long his erection was straining against his trousers. Had Arthur really meant what he'd said about whoring John out? Fingertips ran idly along the fabric constricting his stiff shaft as he re-lived the praise he was awarded while his throat had been abused with cold steel. A low growl threatened to escape as John lost himself to the sensation. 

His thoughts moved on to the image of himself cleaning Arthur's boots, subtly wiggling his hips in the hope that Arthur would have just turned him around and fucked him right then and there. John roughly palmed his clothed erection as he fantasized about the sensation of Arthur's toe-cap probing against his opening. He knew he couldn't risk fingering himself here beside the fire, and now with his tent fully occupied John realized he might not have many opportunities to fuck himself in the near future. His hand slowed, his mind settling on less sexually charged thoughts to prevent painting his union suit with come. 

Thoughts of Arthur building him a fire and feeding him, of Arthur tending to his wounds, even the quiet walk to camp. John had felt like subhuman garbage trailing behind his callous owner, head hung low in submission for the world to look upon. The moment that they made it to the edge of camp, though, John had noticed Arthur's new lodgings and felt a new security in his role. Arthur had gone to all of that trouble for the sake of their privacy. It showed John that Arthur had every intention of protecting him and keeping him close, showed him that he really cared, somewhere, somehow in his own twisted way. John's thoughts drifted again towards a sexual nature as he imagined himself sneaking in to the new privacy of Arthur's sleeping quarters and performing his nightly worship of the man. 

Camp had been quiet for a long while now, John realized. There was no reason to sit here and fantasize about tasting Arthur when he had full permission to rouse the man from sleep. John climbed to his feet in silence, scanning the camp for any movement he may have missed while deep in thought. Satisfied that the guard was nowhere in sight and that the rest of his people were sound asleep, John crept over to the newly hung canvas surrounding Arthur's cot. With a deep breath to settle himself, John breached the entrance. 

It was dark, Arthur had long extinguished the lantern on the table beside him. John stood frozen while his eyes adjusted, transfixed by the massive dark figure breathing slowly on his cot. For a moment fear had won out and chased away his arousal; he'd imagined a moment like this for years and now that he was here, staring at the target of his affections, John found himself paralyzed. Despite everything that had happened in the past week, despite everything Arthur had _done_ to him, John still felt like a twisted pervert forcing his sickness on a healthy man. Shame painted his cheeks.

He bit his bottom lip, just now noticing the leather-bound journal laying on the table. He traced his fingers along the ribbed spine of it, memories of Arthur scribbling away as John had stood exposed by the lakeside fuelled an intense curiosity. John began to wonder just what it was his _Mister Morgan_ had been writing as John bathed himself. He briefly considered opening it up to take a look, but a grunt from Arthur's cot caused him to startle and abandon the idea. 

John positioned himself in front of Arthur's trunk. He figured his best approach was to crawl over it and slip under the blanket from the foot of Arthur's cot. Depending on how Arthur was laying, John bet he'd be able to easily slip in between his legs, or at least just straddle them. He wasn't experienced by any right, but he figured that would be about the best position he could manage without waking the sleeping bear. A heated flush had returned to John's face once the reality of what he was about to do set in. 

He got himself in to position quietly and had already begun working open the stiff buttons of Arthur's obviously new union suit before he felt the larger man stir. John pressed his face against the warm, soft flesh still hidden behind fabric and pulled in a long, deep sniff. The salt and skin of Arthur's body were intoxicating, John's heart sped up as he took time to properly enjoy the man beneath him, pulling his soft cock through the opened suit using only his moistened lips. He sucked it rhythmically as his hands gently guided Arthur's balls out from behind the rough cotton, cradling them in both hands while they awaited their turn in John's mouth. As Arthur began to swell John allowed the weight of Arthur's cock to pull itself out of his wet embrace, the heft falling down gently against the half buttoned fabric. John ran his tongue across the underside of Arthur's sack, taking time to swirl his tongue luxuriously around each of the firm stones, suckling them gently and dreaming of what Arthur's come might taste like. It felt ridiculous that he still had to wonder. John returned his attention to Arthur's shaft, deciding that tonight he was going to find out. A shiver ran down John's back and settled deep inside of him, his perineum instinctively flexing as he swallowed Arthur's full mast. John considered whether he could spare a hand to work on himself while he serviced Arthur, but decided against it. 

Arthur was awake now. He hadn't moved or spoken, but John noticed the difference in his breathing immediately. He slowed down to a torturous pace, sucking as hard as he could without risking any tell-tale sounds permeating the confines of the tent. The warm heat of Arthur's hand could be felt hovering just above his mop of stringy black hair, hitting John with a potent rush of anticipation. The younger man braced himself, preparing his muscles for the violent throat-fuck Arthur was about to subject him to. He couldn't stop himself from flinching as Arthur's hand made contact, though to his utter confusion Arthur simply rested it gently on John's head. A quiet moan drifted towards John, the dulcet tone heavy with lust; a sweet sound John was determined to savour. 

Very little time had passed before John felt the tell-tale swell and twitch of Arthur's cock signalling his approaching climax. He thought about slowing down to buy himself some more time between Arthur's legs, but the validation John got from proving his ability to make his brute come became more urgent than his desire to enjoy himself. John slipped his hand over the one Arthur had placed on John's head and with it, pushed himself down roughly. Willing his throat to relax, John mimicked the abusive deep-throating Arthur had forced him to perform during earlier encounters. 

It was exactly what the older man had needed to push him over the edge. Arthur's balls went tight against John's chin as the thick results of John's hard work were deposited directly down his throat. Another sigh escaped the large cowboy's lips as he seemed to sink further back in to his cot. John mourned the lost opportunity to sate his curiosity, but the joy he felt feeling Arthur relax under his touch was rewarding in it's own way. After a beat, Arthur's hand slid off of John's head and hooked under his shoulder. Arthur's second hand found John's wrist and with a slight grunt, he pulled his little toy forward, resting the smaller man on his chest. John's mind was swimming in a heady mixture of excitement and trepidation, his battered body entirely unaccustomed to this intimacy. Arthur brushed his fingers against his pet's cheek.

“You're going to clean this scruff off of your face.” He told John, his voice still grainy with sleep. 

“Yes'sir.”

John laid still while he fixated on every aspect of Arthur; the weight of his hand on the back of his head, the firm peaks and valleys of his work-chiselled torso, the rise and fall of his breaths, the beat of his heart, so slow and methodical compared to the erratic thrumming of John's own. John's mind was buzzing with euphoria; this moment felt like it had been ripped directly out of his adolescent dreams. He wasn't sure why he was being allowed this tender respite but he was desperate to avoid ruining it. 

“John?'

“Mmmh?” John lifted his chin and placed it delicately on Arthur's sternum, looking up at the man through heavily lidded eyes. 

“Get out of my tent.”


	6. Chapter 6

Morning came a lot sooner than John was prepared for. Concealing his exhaustion was difficult, especially around the boundless energy of one particularly precocious five year old boy. Him and Jack had spent the better part of the morning together, Jack all too eager to tell him everything there is to know about his collection of carved wooden figures. After agreeing to try his hand whittling a few new ones, John dismissed himself to join Abigail for breakfast. 

They didn't talk much, Abigail expressed her thanks for John spending time with Jack, they chatted a bit about reading. It was pleasant enough, eating together. John was sincerely committed to making things work with his family, and even though she had no inkling of John's motives for doing so, Abigail seemed genuinely pleased with his efforts.

“Cleaned up your face, I see.” Micah's voice slithered through the crisp calm of the morning air, “That's a good little boy.”

Abigail looked up from her food, John scowled at Micah. 

“Oh, I don't blame you Marston. If I were the one being fed dirt, I'd be a good dog too.” Micah laid both of his hands on the table and leaned in menacingly, the sour stench of his breath turning John's stomach. “I can see why you got so defensive last night, seems 'Daddy' Morgan already has himself a whipping boy, huh?”

John held Micah's gaze silently. In a flash, John unsheathed the blade from his hip and stabbed it in to the rough wood beside the other man's hand. Abigail flinched, but neither man broke eye contact. “Stay the hell away from me and my family, Micah.”

Micah's caustic features twisted into a sneer, chuckling as he leaned back. “Now, now, there's no need for that; we're all on the same team here, Johnny. Besides, you're frightening your little woman.” His eyes drifted over to Abigail, licking his lips grotesquely. 

John pulled himself up to his feet, eyes narrowing with a dangerous rage. “Stay away from my family.”

Laughter bubbled out from Micah's lips as he retreated back from the couple. John sat back down and continued eating, silently glaring down at his plate.

"What is he talking about, John?"

"I don't think that snake ever has any idea what he's talking about, Abigail; just likes the sound of his own voice."

Abigail chewed thoughtfully, unsure if John was upset with Micah or herself. She eventually broke the awkward silence with a soft whisper. "Is... is he right?" She leaned forward and gently touched John's back, tracing the fabric concealing the broken skin running across his shoulder blades. "Did Arthur do this to you?"

"What?" John forced a scoff, doing his best to act as though the suggestion was preposterous. "Of course not, Abigail. Why would he?"

"Well how should I know _why_?" Shaking her head as she spoke. "What about the mess around the fire?"

"What about it?"

"Why is Arthur treating you like this, John?" 

"He ain't treating me like anything, Abigail. You're just... imagining things."

"Imagining things?! So I'm imagining that whip he's carrying? The whole camp's just imagined Arthur beating you into the ground yesterday?"

John raised his hands, nervously urging Abigail to lower her voice. She softened her tone but refused to change tracks. "You won't even let Susan look at you. Why, John? What's going on?"

John continued staring downwards, toying with the scraps left on his plate.

"Where were you last night?"

"I told you, I fell asleep beside the fire. Had a bit too much to drink."

"This is hopeless. You are hopeless. I don't know why I believed that things would change. You stupid, stubborn man." Abigail stood suddenly, smoothing the fabric of her dress and tidying her bun. She grabbed her empty plate and began to leave.

"Where are you going, Abigail?" John called out, still keeping his voice low.

"I'm going to talk to Arthur."

"Don't!" John jumped to his feet, grabbing her roughly by the shoulder. "Jesus, Abigail. Don't. I can take care of myself. This ain't something to be worrying about."

"It ain't?! You promised to be a good husband to me, a good father to Jack. Less than two days and you're disappearing into the woods, coming home with cuts all over your body? Drinking until you pass out in the middle of camp? What's that mean for us, what's that mean for Jack, huh? I'm going to talk to Arthur." She repeated, pulling her shoulder out of John's grasp.

"And say what, Abigail? 'Please, Mr. Morgan, please stop beating up my husband because he's soft and can't take it.'?” Abigail stared at him, searching his face for meaning. Her expression was pinched with the same fear John had seen in their tent last night.

“Let it go, Abigail. Please. We're brothers. We go through rough patches, we tussle.” John closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, opening them slowly to meet her concerned gaze with tenderness. “If you get involved, I-I don't know if I can protect you. Please, just leave it alone."

"Protect me?" She asked, confused. "Protect me from what? Are... are you afraid of him?"

"Ain't got no reason to be. We fought yesterday, sure, but he didn't have nothing to do with anything else. Told you, it was those fucking 'raiders who got me."

Abigail seemed unconvinced, but she had no evidence outside of her own doubt. The marks on John's back seemed as though they _could_ have been made by a bullwhip, but Abigail couldn't be entirely certain without confronting Arthur.

John's palms were exposed in a silent plea. "Please, Abigail. Just leave it alone."

****************************

The mid-day sun was high in the sky, radiating a punishing heat down on the valley below. Sweat was soaking the back of Arthur's shirt as he stalked about the banks of Dewberry Creek with a look of determination set on his face. Hosea had mentioned this creek as being a likely place to find milkweed, a delicate purple flower that was essential for the creation of his special health cure. 

It had taken the better part of the day but Arthur finally had enough of the ingredients he needed to replenish his supply. He sat down beside the water's edge and kicked off his boots, dipping his feet into the cool water for a brief reprieve from the stifling temperatures swallowing the landscape. 

Arthur debated setting up a fire and attempting to make the tonics before heading back to camp, but the thin, watery stew he'd eaten the day before convinced him that his time would be better spent hunting. Once his feet had dried he pulled on his boots and lifted himself up on to his shire, beginning another slow, bumpy ride on the great beast's lumbering hips. It was a tough sensation to get used to, but Palamedes hadn't given Arthur any reason to regret his decision to keep him. 

One sure shot from his bow sent a pronghorn crashing against the ground. Dinner properly secured for travel, Arthur spurred Palamedes down the long path back to camp. 

“Identify yourself!” Came the gravelly call of Little Johnny Marston. 

As Arthur slowed up beside him, John appeared to shrink in on himself. “Jesus, Marston. They're letting you stand guard? Dutch must be aiming to get us all killed.”

John gripped his rifle tight and looked up, Arthur recognized a guilty expression on the boy's face. “Welcome back, Mister Morgan.” 

Arthur scanned the bushes between himself and the edge of camp. Content that no one had a clear line of sight on them, he shook his boot towards John. “C'mon, you can do better than that.”

The younger man stepped towards Arthur's horse, the giant creature was even more intimidating up close. John bowed his head low and pressed his lips to Arthur's boot, stealing a few seconds to pay his respects against the metal cap. “Welcome back, Sir.” He panted the words out one at a time between softer, wetter noises. 

John lifted his head and stepped back, the subtle outline of his arousal becoming apparent in the fading daylight. Arthur grinned, nodded in approval, and spurred Palamedes towards the edge of camp. As he trotted away, Arthur wondered if he had happened upon John while he'd been discreetly touching himself or if the stiffness hidden behind his clothing had appeared just for him. 

“Thank you, Mister Morgan. This will be a fine addition to the stew.” Pearson began working on the carcass immediately after Arthur placed it on his bench. 

“You just make sure that it actually goes in there this time.” He jabbed, turning on his heel and pacing towards the scout fire. He settled in beside the grill and began preparing the collected herbs for a new batch of tonics. As he worked, Arthur's mind drifted. He didn't notice the footsteps growing louder behind him until Hosea spoke up.

“You're not grinding that ginseng quite right there, Arthur.” The slim, greying man took a seat beside his son and held his hands out towards the mortar. “Here, let me show you.” Arthur relinquished the tools, but kept his gaze trained on the fire as Hosea began rocking the pestle back and forth in gentle, elongated ovals. “You have to crush the leaves in long strokes like this...” Hosea looked up, Arthur was still staring at the flames. “Arthur?” Hosea questioned patiently.

“Never did quite get the hang of it...” Arthur trailed off dismissively. He loved Hosea dearly, but in the moment he found himself regretting not setting up camp out by the creek to make these tonics. Hosea could feel Arthur's discomfort and wondered how best to reach out to his son.

“There is too much ginseng in here. You have to make it in smaller batches, or get a bigger stone.”

Arthur grunted. Hosea looked down at the piles of herbs spread out over Arthur's satchel. “This is a quite the collection you've gathered here. I don't think I've ever seen this many herbs at once.” Arthur stayed quiet, Hosea continued to pry gently “That will make for a considerable supply of tonics. Are we headed in to a war I don't know about?”

“Just got lucky, found some good spots. Didn't figure it'd make much sense to leave it behind.”

“No, no I suppose not.” Hosea said carefully, eyeing the brooding man beside him with mild suspicion. He finished up with the freshly crushed herbs and handed them back to Arthur, placing one hand on his shoulder as he continued to speak. “Arthur, if there is something you need to discuss...”

“I'm fine, Hosea.”

“I'd heard about your seeing Mary back in Valentine. If you're considering getting back together with her, Dutch and I, well-”

Arthur snapped his head around quickly and glared, the anger in his eyes clearly underscored with pain. Hosea realized that he might have misread Arthur's odd behaviours of late and decided against pressing the man any further. He patted Arthur's shoulder and drew himself up from the fire, excusing himself for the evening. The older man was sure that his son would open up to him eventually, in his own time, and that was good enough for now.

The sky had long been dark by the time Arthur finished brewing his tonics, the dozen or so bottles clinking together as he tucked them away into his satchel. He retired to his tent and began pulling off his clothes, the sweat of the day still heavy in the fabric. Despite the sun having sunk below the horizon hours ago the heat remained oppressive. Arthur was debating whether or not to peel off his union suit for the night when he heard the tell tale sounds of his tent being entered. “Don't you think it's a bit early yet?” he asked without turning around. 

Heavy, loose boots dragged unsteadily across the packed dirt floor. Arthur turned to face John, his brown eyes were glassy and pained. Arthur scowled. 

“Are you drunk?” 

John shrugged and nodded, swaying slightly on his feet. The smell of whisky wafted off of him.

A long, disapproving sigh escaped from Arthur's burly chest. His fingers deftly tugged open his under clothes as he settled down on the side of his cot. “I thought I told you to take better care of my property?”

“Did Abigail come talk to you today?” John blurted, blatantly ignoring the blonde outlaw. This brash behaviour was not to be encouraged, however curiosity swayed Arthur to brush aside his annoyance, if only for the time being. 

“No...” his eyes narrowed. “Should I have been expecting her to call on me?”

John dramatically threw his arms up as he dropped himself on to the edge of the cot, nearly missing his mark. He let out an exaggerated sigh before leaning his weight against Arthur. The drink didn't favour John, his obnoxious mannerisms were wearing the older man's patience thin. Arthur slid his hand behind John's neck and forcibly shoved him to the ground, instructing him to remain on the floor and explain what was going on.

“Troubles with the ' _wife_.” He spat out sarcastically. Arthur watched on as the inebriated man gave up on trying to regain composure and just flopped on to his back; it was a pathetic sight to behold.

“It's your job to make her happy John, not mine.”

“No, not that... well, it might be that” A slurred voice conveyed his blurry thought process. 

Arthur moved his bare foot over John's throat and pressed down lightly. “I'm getting tired of this.” He warned. “Speak, boy.”

“She... she fucking knows.” 

“Then you fucked up, didn't you?” Bulky muscles in Arthur's leg flexed as he pressed his foot down harder against John's neck, the pitiful creature below made no move to protect himself from the pressure that had begun to restrict his breathing. Arthur could feel the hair on the back of his own neck rise up, he knew he had frightened Abigail when they last spoke. If she had already figured out the control Arthur exuded over her husband, Arthur may have to unleash himself on her sooner than he'd intended. “ _What_ does she know?” Arthur removed his foot and stared down expectantly.

“She thinks you're responsible for... she figured out tha...” John couldn't seem to put his broken thoughts in to words, until finally in his drunken state he blurted out his grievance while he gestured at the newest addition to Arthur's belt. “Why did you have to go wearing that stupid fucking thing around camp?!”

Arthur pounced on top of him, covering the boy's mouth with one hand while the other fist twisted into the collar of his shirt. “I'm getting real sick of your mouth, boy.” Arthur hissed at John through clenched teeth, minding his volume as he ground his knuckles painfully against the trembling man's chest. “You don't fucking speak to me like that. You show up in my tent crocked and start blaming me for your fucking failures?” Arthur pulled John off of the ground by his collar, just enough to violently slam him back down against the dirt. “Keep your goddamned voice down and tell me exactly what you told her.”

Brown eyes widened in alarm, the fear coursing through John appeared to sober him up enough to remember his inferiority at the hands of his tormentor. “Nothing.” John whispered after Arthur removed the hand covering his mouth. “I'm sorry, Sir. I-I didn't tell her nothing.”

“Then she doesn't _know_ anything.”

“She saw the marks after you brought me back from the woods. I told her we fought, but, she thinks there's more to it than that. 'Said she was going to talk to you about it. I didn't know what to do, I just...”

“Decided to get drunk, burst in to my tent, and pitch a fucking fit?” The fire in Arthur's eyes burned holes in to John, the beaten dog whimpering quietly as he lay helplessly pinned under his master. Long moments slipped by. John lost his ability to bear the heat of Arthur's gaze, his eyes drifted downwards as the alluring whisper of his alcohol soaked senses drew his attention elsewhere. 

Arthur felt the growing press of John's cock as it awakened underneath him. It brought him back to the interaction they had shared earlier in the day; reminded him of the guilt that had been worn on this woeful wretch's face. Perhaps he hadn't caught John playing with himself, after all. 

“When did you start hitting the bottle today?” Arthur asked, his frown deepening with suspicion as John's eyes closed in response to the query. “Were you drinking on guard duty?”

John nodded timidly. The fury building in Arthur's chest boiled over with the discovery of this betrayal, this dereliction of duty was wholly unforgivable. He felt something inside of him snap; John had gone too far. 

“Keep your eyes closed. Open your mouth.” 

Without taking his eyes off of John, Arthur fumbled through his pile of discarded clothing until his fingertips brushed against the coarse wool of a sock. He thrust it roughly between John's lips, pressing it deep enough to make the little bastard gag. 

“You keep that in there. If it slips out, if you make a single sound, I'll make this even worse for you.”

Calloused hands gathered each of John's slender, milky wrists and guided them up past the raven mop falling from the frightened fool's forehead. “Tuck these behind your head.” Arthur commanded. “If you move them, so help me, I'll break every one of your fingers. You hear me, Marston?” 

John nodded, his eyes fluttered open before being immediately corrected with the back of Arthur's hand. “Did I tell you to open your eyes?”

A tiny, desperate whimper slipped out of the quivering man pinned between his legs, but Arthur was too wrapped up in his vexation to take pleasure from the smaller man's dread. This wasn't about his own enjoyment, this was about teaching his pet to behave. He sunk his teeth mercilessly into the flesh of John's left pectoral muscle, the body beneath him stiffening involuntarily. 

Another bite, this time placed on the underside of John's bicep. Arthur watched pale fingers twist in black hair, but the boy's hands stayed firmly behind the back of his head. He clenched his jaw tighter until he felt the flesh break against his teeth. A feeble cry was muffled against the sock stuffed in John's mouth. Arthur released his jaw and straightened his back, grinning down at his prey with blood on his teeth. After a moment of consideration he dove back down and bit in to the red fabric concealing John's rib cage. The assault carried on, Arthur shuffling his body lower so he could leave a trail of bites down John's torso. He unhooked the suspenders holding John's jeans secure and tugged the denim out of his way, his teeth taking hold of the flesh on John's thigh. The muffled whimpers had become smothered screams as John thrashed wildly underneath Arthur, his back arching, his head tossing from side to side. Tears had begun to pour from the boy's face as he tried to escape from the agony firing through his frame. 

A dozen more bites were peppered across John's body as Arthur worked his rage out on his helpless plaything, the red cotton of the union suit preventing Arthur's bony enamel from puncturing the skin behind it. The bruising, crushing pressure from the vice-like grip of Arthur's jaw was unbearable. 

Arthur settled back up on his haunches, ultimately granting himself a moment to observe his work. His pet was shivering violently, as if his body had been overtaken by a winter chill. Sun-bronzed pillars of muscle caged John's tormented body as Arthur leaned in and lapped up the blood weeping from the ruptured flesh of the younger man's arm. A low growl rumbled from deep within Arthur as the copper taste on his tongue fed the wild animal beating in his chest.

“Look at me, boy.” He demanded in a hoarse, subdued tone. John's watery brown eyes opened slowly, the distressed expression on his face evincing the excruciating pain still ebbing through his body. Arthur's lips curled into a predatory grin, the gratification he felt looking over his cowering quarry momentarily satisfying his vicious compulsions. The terrified wretch below him flinched as Arthur moved to pull the woolen fabric from his mouth. 

“I'm sorry, Mister Morgan. Please...” John begged, asking for nothing in particular. He remained on his back, his body writhing in a frantic attempt to distract himself from focusing too much on any particular one of the painful bite marks throbbing in his flesh.

Arthur seated himself once more on the edge of his cot, contented that his displeasure with John's behaviour had been made very clear. He was still irritated, but the gratification that had engulfed his senses as he tortured John with his mouth left him in a peaceful, contemplative state. He cleared his throat and nudged the pitiable mess still writhing on the floor with his foot. 

John shakily pulled himself up on to his knees in front of Arthur, settling himself between the sturdy walls of Arthur's thighs. The pungent sweat from a hard day's work hit John's nose as he neared his master's crotch. Despite his profound suffering John could feel his cock taking interest in what was about to happen. He leaned in closer and parted his lips.

"No." 

"No?" John squeaked, looking up at the overcast pair of blue eyes with incredulity. 

Arthur's hand pressed in to John's shoulder, pushing him back slightly. "You don't deserve it. I want you to leave."

Arthur stared down at John, eyeing him closely as disappointment and despair played out across his face. John slowly gathered himself up to leave. Arthur was amused by the obvious impairment of his pet's motions, the older man smiling smugly as he revelled in the fact that the pale, lanky creature before him was struggling to maneuver as a result of his abuse. A marked improvement from the inebriation that had hindered his movements earlier. The thought of offering John one of the tonics he'd prepared crossed Arthur's mind, but he dismissed it; he wanted John to feel every single ache as he tried to fall asleep. 

"Get some rest, then pack your horse. We head out of camp together first thing tomorrow morning."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and John head out of camp to enjoy a quiet afternoon together.

Daybreak had been witnessed by very few of the Van Der Linde gang, the stillness of the air mirrored in kind by the inactivity of their camp. Arthur enjoyed peaceful mornings like these, usually opting to spend them with his journal in his lap. Today however, he found himself indentured to a more demanding schedule. 

He'd finished loading up his saddlebags and began climbing his mount when he spied John slipping out from the opening of his shared tent. Arthur felt a slight stirring in his chest when the younger man first looked his way. Despite ceaseless attempts to decipher the nature of his feelings towards John, Arthur was no closer to understanding what any of these recent developments signified between the two men. He buried these complex emotions and watched on with quiet stoicism as John paced towards him. A second figure appeared from the tent's opening. Abigail followed John, speaking words that Arthur couldn't quite hear. She froze in place when she looked past her husband to find Arthur awaiting him, the look on her face confirming Arthur's suspicion that the conversation between the two had pertained to him. 

Surely Abigail would have seen the new bruises on John's body; the unmistakable ovals of broken blood vessels in the shape of human teeth would have been impossible for John to explain away. His decision to withhold health cures would mean that the marks he'd left behind last night would be vibrant, and judging by the way John was moving, still a source of extreme discomfort. Arthur felt giddy, his smirk laden with sincere gratification from knowing his ownership over the other man was becoming undeniable to more than just John himself. 

John had made his way over to Old Boy and was tucking away the few possessions he'd gathered for travel. Abigail pursued John silently, her eyes darting between the two men with uneasy suspicion. Arthur's eyes twinkled as he addressed the fearful woman. 

“There's no need to worry, Abigail. I know he's an awful shot but I don't think he could manage to hurt me too badly.” 

Her expression shifted from confusion to anger, then finally landed on hatred as she settled her sights on the giant man she knew was abusing her husband. Arthur was nearly laughing, the jubilation radiating from him spurring fury in Abigail. Her hands were balled into fists, her frame had developed a sight tremor. She wanted to shout; wanted to scream out at the top of her lungs about the truth of what Arthur had done. She wanted the whole camp to rise up and beat this heartless monster hard enough to display the same rainbow of suffering he had gleefully painted across her husband's body. Abigail knew, of course, that would not be how things played out if she did. She hated Arthur, but she hated John more for protecting the vile brute. 

“You coming with us, then?” John called out from atop his own mount, the tone of his voice was vicious and insulting. “You going to come do the killing for once?” 

“You're a god-damned fool, John Marston.” Abigail shot him a cold glare, bit down on her bottom lip and shook her head. “This.. this ain't right.” She added, her eyes moving back over to Arthur as she spoke. 

“What ain't right, Abigail, is you fixin' to wake the whole camp over some silly nonsense you've gon' and dreamt up.”

Arthur had to hand it to John, it actually sounded like he believed Abigail was crazy; a far cry from the quavering mess of uncertainty that had shown up in his tent last night. Muttering to herself, Abigail headed back towards John's tent, pausing only to shoot Arthur one last poisonous glare. His smirk widened in to a grin, mischief dancing in his eyes. He was going to have to make sure he intervened before she felt compelled to do something rash. 

A prickle of aggression crept up the back of his neck as he pictured Abigail thrashing helplessly beneath him; pictured plunging himself inside of her quivering slit as her tiny fists beat against his chest. Arthur's thoughts drifted back to the last time he'd had her. The reigns gripped tightly in his hand reminded him of her willowy, delicate wrists. Abigail had been a lovely distraction. Mary's rejection had felt like a gut shot and the best cure he could figure on at the time was to drown his sorrows and soak his dick...

The slow lope of John's stallion pulling up beside him snapped Arthur's focus back to the present moment. John eyed the older man's bared teeth and found himself unable to scrounge up the courage to speak. Arthur tugged on the reigns, guiding Palamedes away from the post as he spurred him in to a light gallop. They had a long ride ahead of them but Arthur figured they could make it to Valentine by noon if they didn't run in to any trouble along the way. Old Boy's hooves could be heard hitting the dirt in pace with Palamedes; Arthur didn't bother to look back. 

The ride had been silent.

Deathly silent. 

John had been mindful to keep himself well behind Arthur's mount. Once they had left the scout's range around their camp John had made a pointed effort to lower his head as best as he could manage while riding. He'd hoped the older man leading their journey would appreciate his physical display of submission, but much to his dismay, the stubborn prick didn't look in John's direction once. There was a terrible ache worming it's way through John's chest. 

He'd fucked up. He knew he'd fucked up. The sharp sting of each bite mark on his body served as a constant reminder of his failure. Fresh waves of pain travelled from the patches of bruised flesh each time Old Boy's back shifted. His right arm felt like it was on fire. Sweltering heat aggravated the pounding in his head; the combination of yesterday's reckless drinking and the agony firing through his body kept John in a constant state of torment. Arthur's brooding silence weighed on him heavily, feeding an anxiety that grew more intense with each mile they rode. A little voice in the back of his mind kept telling John that Arthur had run out of patience for him. The fear of dying at his brother's hands had slithered it's way back in to John's mind. 

John pulled his canteen from the saddlebag and drank down the last few gulps of water he'd had left. Hours of riding had taken their toll but he didn't dare slow his pace or ask for reprieve. They'd been heading North, near as John could tell they were headed for Valentine. Seemed an odd choice considering the recent shootout there had sent them down to Clemens Point in the first place. After another hour his suspicions were confirmed, Arthur finally acknowledging him as he dismounted in front of the Levi Family Stables. 

“Lead Old Boy in here behind me.” Arthur commanded, still yet to look in John's direction. 

“Mister Kilgore!” Amos called out cheerfully from behind his bushy whiskers as the men entered the modest building. “It is a pleasure to see you again so soon. And who is your friend?”

“Jim Milton” John offered without hesitation, reaching out automatically to shake the blacksmith's hand. 

“I was hoping to pick up that order I had left with you last week,” Arthur said. “And if you've got the room, I'd like you to take in Mr. Milton's horse here for a bit. Give him the same treatment you gave my Shire.”

“Ah, yes. Beautiful creature that one. Proper cleaning and some new shoes, should be able to have it all done by tomorrow morning.”

John startled a bit when the farrier reached out for Old Boy's reigns. John wasn't comfortable leaving his mount behind but he handed the worn leather over to Amos without argument and forced a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don't you worry about your horse, son. We treat every animal to come through those doors as though they was our very own.” Amos assured, sensing John's hesitation. “You come back first thing, Mister Milton, and you'll swear I was handing you back a brand new horse.”

“Just, uh, see that that's not the case, alright?” John retorted. Arthur laughed and clapped his hand on John's back, explaining to Amos the poor luck 'Mister Milton' had had with horses of late. John was always impressed with how easily Arthur could lie to strangers. The two men carried on with light small talk as Amos guided Old Boy into a nearby stall. He cooed at John's horse as he closed up the stall, then fished a package out from one of the tables in the back of the stable. It was long and thin, wrapped in butchers paper and tied with twine. 

“I've got to say Mister Kilgore, you never did strike me as much of a livestock man.” Amos said, handing the package over to Arthur.

“Man's gotta try his hand at everything to get by out here, I reckon.” Arthur thanked Amos and excused himself and John from the building. John took one more wary glance in Old Boy's direction before he allowed himself to be lead out of the stables. He felt vulnerable without his mount nearby, unease building in his chest as he followed Arthur down the muddy street. The same silence that had accompanied the ride in to town followed along as the two men approached the Smithfield's saloon. Arthur slung his horse's lead around the hitching post, taking a few moments to feed, pat, and murmur sweet pleasantries to Palamedes before gesturing at John to enter. 

John made his way through the loosely hung double swing-doors. There weren't a lot of patrons inside and the afternoon crowd didn't seem to be nearly as lively as the evening drinkers. This suited John just fine, he didn't find he was really in a mood for crowds. The two men would able to speak with one another without shouting, assuming John could land on something to say. Arthur instructed him to sit at a table near the piano and headed over to speak to the bartender. By the time Arthur returned to the table John still hadn't found his voice. He watched on in silence as Arthur placed a plate of food in front of him. 

“Eat.” Arthur grunted, seating himself at the other side of the table. The older outlaw tucked a napkin in to his collar before cutting in to his meal. The barkeep arrived shortly afterwards to place two glasses and a bottle of bourbon in the centre of the table. Arthur thanked him between bites. Once he'd finished chewing, Arthur placed his cutlery down and filled the glasses with liquid amber. 

“You're awful company, John.” Arthur pushed a glass towards his companion. 

John's hangover hadn't improved, the strong smell wafting from the glass made his stomach lurch. Brown eyes locked with blue ones, John's desperation was met with malice. He reached out for the glass and lifted it to his lips with a trembling hand. John forced himself to swallow, his features contorting in discomfort as the bourbon burned a path down to the pit of his queasy stomach. 

Satisfied, Arthur returned his attention to his meal. “How's your arm?” he asked with a disinterested tone. 

“Terrible.” John croaked. He wasn't lying. The pain had been relentless, heat could be felt radiating from the broken skin beneath his sleeve; it was almost certainly infected. 

Arthur hummed in acknowledgement. With a few more silent bites the plate before him was cleared. John looked down at his own, only having managed to take a few bites of vegetables and gravy. He was starving but he couldn't bring himself to touch the thick slab of oily lamb. 

Arthur poured himself a second glass of bourbon, topping up John's glass before returning the bottle to the table. “I told you to eat, John.”

“I-I can't.” John whispered, his stare affixed to the plate. He could feel Arthur glaring at him. 

“Then drink.”

“I'm going to be sick...”

“I don't care.”

Bracing himself, John tossed his glass back. He felt his head begin to spin, the burning sensation in his guts spreading and joining the heat from his arm.

Arthur slid his full glass across the table. “Drink.”

A whine escaped John's lips as he dutifully cupped the new glass with his left hand. He locked eyes once more with Arthur, the older man not bothering to hide his amusement as John pushed himself to do as he was bid. The punishment was fitting of the crime, John supposed. 

As John emptied Arthur's glass, Arthur refilled John's. 

“Eat.”

John complied, if only for a chance to taste something other than liquid fire. He exaggerated each mouthful, his teeth grinding the food in to a uniform paste long before he made himself swallow. The food caught in his throat. His body was screaming for water. A fever threatened to overtake him. The tremor in John's hands gave way to violent shaking. He forced himself to swallow bite after bite as Arthur watched him with unblinking eyes. The older man finished his drink.

In an attempt to buy his stomach some time to settle, John reached for the bottle and offered to pour more out for Arthur. Arthur declined, expressing his desire for John to finish the rest of the bottle himself.

“Unless...” Arthur stroked the stubble on his chin. “...you'd like to do something else to entertain me.”

The mischievous undertone in Arthur's voice was unsettling but John couldn't readily imagine a worse way to pass time than continuing to force feed himself. One more bite and his stomach would spill out on to the floor, followed quickly by the rest of him.

“What did you have in mind?” John asked, shoving his dishes away towards the centre of the table.

Arthur grinned, pushing the rim of his hat upwards with his thumb as he tipped back in his chair. He gestured towards a giant man sitting alone at the back of the saloon. John turned his head to take in the sight. 

The man looked rough, clearly a relic left over from the pioneer days. He had what appeared to be a raccoon pelt adorning his head; a perfect match for the scraggly black beard hanging from his face. John snapped his head back around quickly, narrowly avoiding a glare from the dishevelled mountain man. He began to panic as he opened his mouth to question Arthur.

“Go fight him.”

John blinked a few times while the thought slowly registered. Arthur must be out of his damn mind; even from their table across the distance of the saloon the man looked massive. There was no chance John could square up to him, not in his condition. He reached forward to pull his plate back, deciding it would be better to choke on his food than on his teeth.

A thick hand grabbed John's wrist, stopping him from reclaiming his meal. John looked up, his brown eyes pleading with Arthur to reconsider. 

“I can barely move my arm...” 

“ 'didn't say you gotta win.” Arthur shrugged. 

“He'll fucking kill me.” John's voice came out weaker than he'd ever recalled it sounding before. 

“For his sake, he'd better not.” 

That was it. John knew there was no way out of this. He grabbed his glass and steeled himself to finish the contents, grateful for alcohol's ability to dull the howl of pain. The three glasses he'd had had been filled to the brim and to his benefit the effects were already taking hold of his senses. 

Arthur grinned as he watched his companion stand up from his chair and peel his jacket off. John held his hands out in a final silent plea, to which Arthur crooked his brow and nodded his head towards the back of the saloon. John pulled in a deep breath and turned his back to Arthur, making his way slowly past the bar. 

It had been a few weeks now, but Arthur had once fought the man he'd sent John after. It had not been an easy fight - the mountaineer was a mouthy son-of-a-bitch but he had the brute strength to back it up. Arthur figured that was why folk 'round these parts tolerated him as an apparent regular; easier to let him run his mouth than it would be to shut him up. 

Arthur wasn't able to make out the words exchanged between John and the other man, but it was barely a second before the cantankerous pile of furs flew up from the table and lunged toward John. The younger man staggered as he moved to dodge the attack, only to send an unoccupied chair screeching across the floor. The patrons within the bar all turned to the scuffle, the bartender began shouting at the pair. 

Several blows were exchanged. John was holding up better than Arthur had expected, until the mountain man managed to land a powerful hit to the side of John's jaw. The impact sent him to the ground, however it seemed to rouse John's fortitude. He jumped back up to his feet with impressive speed, using his momentum to drive his shoulder into the larger man's chest. The bulk of the grizzly man absorbed the blow easily, he hoisted John up and tossed him across a table. Arthur could hear John's scream as he landed hard on his injured arm. 

His adversary lumbered around the table and grabbed John up from the floor, using his weight advantage to guide John towards the door of the saloon as they grappled. The brawlers crashed through the doors and fell in to the street, John's frame was pounded in to the mud by the weight of the other man's body landing on top of his own. John pulled himself out and attempted to crawl away, only to receive a boot in his ribs for his efforts. 

“I'm not done with you,” John's assailant shouted out as a crowd began to gather. He stomped John's nearest hand beneath his heel, eliciting a howl from his victim as fingers snapped beneath the sole of his boot. He pinned John beneath his bulk and fed the younger man several fists. John kicked free from the hold and managed to return to his feet, only to catch a fist in the middle of his stomach. Lamb fry and bourbon came spilling out of his mouth as he fell backwards in to the mud.

“Stay down there, you little shit!” barked the vicious mountaineer through his filthy beard. 

John looked up in time to see Arthur appear behind the other man. 

“I reckon the boy's learned his lesson.”

The grizzly bastard turned towards Arthur but before he could speak Arthur's fist bore in to his cheek. The pile of furs collapsed into the mud at John's feet. 

It was remarkable to see just what Arthur was capable of. John, half dazed from the fight stared up at him in awe before he began pulling himself to his feet. Arthur offered his hand in assistance, assistance which John sorely needed and gratefully accepted. 

Just as John shifted his centre of gravity towards standing Arthur shoved him back down to the ground. 

“Did I tell you to get up?” Arthur strode past him. “Crawl, Marston. Follow me like the dog you are.” 

John pulled himself in to position on his hands and knees; the eyes of the people gathered around him burning in to his skin. He tried to ignore the shame he felt and focus on the direction Arthur was heading in instead. John began to crawl. 

“Look at all these nice people, Johnny.” Arthur spat mockingly as he turned to face his pet. “You going to greet them, you worthless mongrel?”

He could hear spurts of laughter from a few men in the crowd. He couldn't bear it; the ceasless waves of pain, the severe dehydration, the bitter humiliation, the burn of alcohol, the adrenaline and fear coursing through him; all of it piling up and burying him in a hopeless despair.

“Bark for the nice people, Johnny.” Arthur insisted, his boot slapping the ground as he kicked mud up at John's face. 

John's vision was blurry from repeated blows to his head, but it wasn't enough to keep him from noticing his broken fingers. Their slender lengths jutted out from the meat of his hand in unnatural angles as he clawed the soaked dirt. The strain that had been building inside of John since Rhodes suddenly became too much - something inside of him broke. “F-fuck you.” he sputtered.

“What did you say to me, boy?”

“Fuck you, Arthur.” John repeated, collapsing forward onto the street. He couldn't take it, and he couldn't find the strength to care anymore.

Arthur dropped down to one knee beside John and wrapped his fist into the collar of his shirt. Without a hint of strain or exertion the larger outlaw pulled his prey up off the ground by the scruff of his neck. He leaned in close, brushing his lips across John's ear as he breathed his response, “Alright, John. If you insist.”

He strode across the street with John limply hanging in his steel grip and entered the lobby of the Saints Hotel. Greeting the man behind the desk with a smile, Arthur ordered a hot bath.

“I'm going to need you to send one of your girls in to help me treat my friend's wounds.” 

The clerk examined the ten dollar bill Arthur had placed in his hands with surprise, then ushered the men down the corridor to his right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets cleaned up and receives a gift. There is a crucial misunderstanding between him & Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm going to regret posting this without editing, but like, fuck it. For the ten of you out there that have the stomach for my writing, I wanted to give you something to wrap up the year. Enjoy.

John felt himself floating down the narrow wooden corridor of the Saints Hotel. There was no pain, no fear, and no real comprehension of the coloured lights streaming past his weightless body. He heard distant voices chatter indistinctly in his surroundings but there was no single syllable that sounded like any word he ever knew. 

If Arthur was worried, there was no tell of it in his expression. His face still wore the same half-bored, half-mischievous look that it had while watching over the fight he'd forced John to start. Arthur pushed open the door labelled "Bath" and carried his limp plaything in by the scruff it's neck. Finally hidden away from the view of strangers, he pulled John tightly against his body and allowed himself to relish in the delights this afternoon had brought. John's blind obedience was pleasing to the older man, but the glimmer of defiance he had finally coaxed from his little brother had set Arthur's blood on fire. However brief it had been, the angry rasp of John's gravelly voice directed at him made Arthur painfully aware of the sadistic passions that had been building up inside of him since Rhodes. Arthur wanted more of it, craved a little bit of fight from the broken wretch. He supposed that some tenderness might embolden John to act out again. With one massive arm he held John upright against himself while the other massaged and soothed the dazed creature. He'd put up a good fight at the saloon, Arthur was eager to see how much more this boy had left to give before snapping completely. 

The firm caress along John's lower back roused his senses. His carefree weightlessness giving way to consciousness, encouraged by the enjoyable pressure of Arthur's firm body pressed against his own. John recognized the sweet mixture of sweat and smoke that permeated every piece of Arthur's clothing. His breathing was laboured, but he pulled in each breath with a growing enthusiasm. John buried his face deeper between the swells of the outlaw's chest, his eyes closed as he let his body relax in to the pillar of muscle that seemed to encompass his entire self. For a moment he felt peace. 

It did not last long. His whereabouts and the incidents leading to this moment came crashing against John in waves. His fantastic bliss was blown apart, becoming lesser with each intrusive thought that hit him. The fight, the pain in his arm, last night's punishment, the argument with Abigail... bliss became anxiety as memories of the trauma he'd endured revealed themselves. He couldn't keep himself from trembling as vivid scenes of torture flooded his mind; the stinging bite of metal suspender clasps peppering his body, the cold barrel of Arthur's revolver prodding ruthlessly down his throat, the blazing agony he awoke to as his back was cauterized, and the dry, brutal fuck that had left him torn and bleeding for days afterwards. Arthur's thick forearms kept John firmly pinned against his chest as the younger man fell apart. Despite everything, John took comfort in the arms of his tormentor. He sobbed loudly into Arthur's chest as the emotions he'd bottled up poured out of him. 

"S-shhh, shhh. You're alright..." Arthur cooed as he stroked John's filthy, mud-caked hair. John resented being comforted like one of Arthur's horses, he resented being handled like some big, dumb animal, but far worse was the realization that it was working. He could feel his frayed nerves calming more with each deep tone that reverberated through Arthur's chest. "... you're alright, boy. I'm gonna' get you all cleaned up." 

A knock at the door startled John, he stifled a whine as he felt the strength of Arthur's body leave him. Suddenly left to hold himself up, John became aware of how weak and cold his body felt.

"Can't have a bath with your clothes on, John." The sturdy cowboy remarked as he turned and faced towards the door, greeting the working girl as she pushed it open gingerly. Her green eyes peered meekly from her round, freckled face. She had a similar appearance to Mary-Beth, Arthur thought, if not just a little bit better fed.

"You fellas needed some help in here?" She asked, standing in the open doorway. Arthur stepped back to make space for her to enter, smiling warmly as he nodded. 

"My Brother-by-law here has had a rough couple days. I need some gentle hands to help him wash up while I check over his injuries." 

"Well, let's see if we can't get him feeling right again, shall we?" 

Arthur turned his attention back to John as the girl worked her way over to the far side of the tub. She busied herself with towels and soaps while the intimidating man who opened the door helped his companion out of his filthy garments. She heard gasps and groans as each piece of clothing was removed and once her eyes caught sight of the array of marks decorating the man's body she couldn't keep from staring. Bruises of every colour shaded his body. Freshly scabbed lacerations were painted across every inch of him, crisscrossing between thin pink lines where new scars were forming. His face appeared to have taken a few hits very recently, or so it seemed underneath the layers of drying mud. Arthur noticed her gaze linger on a few obvious bite marks.

"Went missing a couple days longer than a week ago, my sister sent me out to look for him." Arthur supplied in explanation as he gently guided John towards the tub. "Found him in a camp with some Irish-sounding fellers." 

The girl checked the water's temperature then reached a hand across the tub to help steady the wounded man as he lifted one shaking foot over the porcelain wall of the bath.

"They seemed to be holding out for a ransom, kept him alive. Barely." Arthur finished his explanation as he and the girl helped John settle in to the water. Her eyes examined John woefully. 

"Those men wearing green? Seen a lot more of them around these parts lately." She dipped a cloth in to the water and lifted it slowly toward John's chest. "A few of them have left similar marks behind on our girls." She gestured towards one of the bite marks glowing like a brand on John's pale skin. "Didn't know they took to treating men in kind."

"Animals don't take much care choosing their prey." Arthur retorted. The woman was leaning forward over the edge of the tub, the rounded flesh peeking out through the top of her dress caught Arthur's notice. This pretty young woman was particularly well endowed, his gaze lingered upon the low opening of her sapphire bustier.

"Awful business, that.” Her tone was compassionate but as she dragged the washcloth across John's body she stretched provocatively, placing herself on display in a fashion that suggested a great deal of skill in her line of work. John's gaze didn't falter. 

A sudden realization hit Arthur; _he had been John's first_. John confessed never having been with a woman, the indifference the boy showed towards the heaving bosom glistening in front of him appeared to confirm that. Arthur hadn't given it much thought before but if John had never bed a woman and if that deputy Arthur had strangled really had been the first man in which John confided his deviancy, then that would mean the rough fuck in that dark basement had been John's first and only real time having sex. 

Stunned by this spontaneous epiphany, Arthur turned his back to the pair under the guise of fishing tonics from his satchel. He struggled to focus as vicious wheels began turning inside of his mind. The thought that John's body had been breached exclusively by him was unexpectedly arousing, but it was also useful information that Arthur could use to manipulate and further antagonize the young man without raising a hand to him. 

Arthur pulled the tonics from his bag and settled on the side of the tub opposite of his helper. After a few minutes with only the slosh of water and the occasional grunt passed through John's clenched jaw as Arthur applied slave to his wounds, Arthur bid the woman to join him on the other side of the tub. 

"Hold his arm out straight," he instructed. Noticing the apprehension on her face when he unsheathed his knife he explained himself, "I'm going to have to drain here where the skin was broken.”

She moved around the back of the tub and pulled John's right wrist against her hip, cradling it and caressing it against herself as a distraction while she watched the blonde cowboy set to work on the putrid gash left behind by dull teeth. He lined the tip of his blade up against one of several greyish-blue lumps that had formed beneath the skin. With a firm press the tip buried in to the soft flesh, pungent grey fluid immediately ran from the puncture. The man in the tub let out a hiss through bared teeth as calloused thumbs deftly pressed each side of the opening. Once the fluid running from the wound had been replaced with blood, Arthur picked his knife back up and set to work on another pocket of dying flesh. He repeated the procedure on each of the grey spots, the man in the tub shaking and moaning as the work was completed. Ointments were introduced to the cuts, the girl watched curiously as the larger man massaged them in to the openings. She was surprised to see the wound beginning to heal with unnatural speed. Her and the other girls could benefit from learning this special cure, she thought quietly. 

"Ma'am?" Arthur looked up and noticed the colour had drained from the young woman's face, the rouge on her cheeks appearing more prominent than before. "I'm going to have to reset the bones in his other hand. I don't think you're going to want to be here for that." 

"I-I think I can handle it, if you need the help, sir." She didn't want to be here another moment, but it was clear these men needed help and her boss had been very insistent she provide them with whatever they required. Sensing this, Arthur motioned towards John's pile of clothes on the floor. 

"If you and the ladies here could, my friend's attire would benefit from some laundering. I would also like to rent any room you might have with two beds.”

Without hesitation she began gathering the soiled garments. “I'm afraid all of our suites have one bed each,” she said as she moved towards the door. 

Arthur stood and stepped towards her, leaning in with a charming smile. “I suppose that's just as well...” his voice became sweet nectar with a gruff, seductive edge. “...once I've finished tending to this pitiful creature, you could perhaps keep me company for the evening. If you're available, of course.”

A hot flush burned behind the woman's freckles as she drank in the cool water of Arthur's gaze. Her body language expressed a complete willingness to spend some time unraveling the mysteries of this rugged stranger. She opened her mouth to speak, but was promply cut off. 

“I noticed two rooms across the hall from here. If they're available, I'd like them both. Would you be able to arrange this for us?" He asked as he pressed some crumpled bills in to her hand; a generous sum for the services requested. She promised to do her best as she hurried off with the bundle of clothes in her arms, gratefully accepting the excuse to avoid witnessing any further doctoring. Arthur helped her through the door and then closed it firmly behind her. 

John let out a sigh of relief, the woman had been kind enough but her hands on his body had made him uneasy. Arthur's obvious attraction to her had bothered him and the inquiry Arthur had made about her services conjured snakes of jealousy that slithered around his heart. John berated himself for his pathetic, possessive feelings. Arthur wasn't sick like him; John was an absolute fool to think he could capture the man's attention for himself when young, beautiful women were always so happy to throw themselves at Arthur's feet. He slid down in to the water a bit, allowing it soak his hair and shield him from his own pathetic self-loathing. 

Arthur still had his back turned to John, was still facing the door frozen in thought. He could feel the monster inside of him bubble upwards through the hollow of his chest. 

"Fuck you." He growled.

John couldn't hear Arthur, but through the water he recognized that the other man had spoken. He slid up and rested his back against the wall of the tub. The older outlaw still hadn't turned to face him. "A-arthur?" 

"Fuck you." Arthur repeated. Not a request. Not a demand. A statement. John bit down on his bottom lip nervously. He knew that his outburst in the street earlier would not go unpunished. His upper body suddenly felt cold and exposed, protruding as it was from the warm water. He watched Arthur slowly turn from the door and make his way to the side of the tub. Familiar tides of fear rose inside of John, paralyzing him as he locked eyes with the other man. He maintained his best poker face. He would take his punishment bravely, he decided, certain that it was the only thing he could do that might improve his situation. 

Arthur knelt beside John, holding the younger man's gaze as he moved to take John's injured hand in his own. He held it flat in his palm and traced the bones of each finger delicately. “You got anything more you want to say to me, boy?” Arthur asked, wistful eyes daring the younger man to lash out again. 

“No sir.” came John's hoarse whisper.

“No? You ain't got no explanations for your behaviour, then?” Arthur glared, breaking eye contact to better ascertain the state of John's broken and dislocated digits. 

The moment Arthur's gaze diverted John's eyes sank downwards, tears reducing his vision to blurry waving lines. He couldn't will himself to be brave in the face of Arthur's ire. 

“I-I'm weak.” he began, “A-and, and scared, and stupi- Aaaah! _Fuck_!!” John gasped and cursed as Arthur pulled, popped, and snapped one of his fingers back in to place. 

“You're stupid alright.” Arthur mused as his hands took stock of John's other injured fingers. “You ain't done a thing right since you got back to camp.” Another series of deft motions ripped a scream from John that travelled down the hallway, startling the woman holding John's clothes as she spoke with her boss in the front lobby. The hotel manager's face was stricken with concern as he glanced towards the hallway.

“He's fixing that poor feller's hand.” She explained. 

“He a doctor?” the man asked, suspiciously. “Didn't seem to me as likely being scholarly types...”

“I couldn't say, though he did use some medicines I ain't never seen before. Good ones.”

“Hmmm.” The man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Can't judge a book, I suppose. You said he wanted rooms '1a' and '1b', they looking for company tonight?” 

“The blonde fella expressed some interest, but his friend ain't in any sort of shape for much more than resting.” She handed one of the bills Arthur had given her over to her boss. He watched her head upstairs to deliver the laundry, pocketing the cash for himself once she was out of sight. 

John's eyes were closed, his head leaning back against the rim of the tub as he panted, reeling; the remedy had felt so much worse than the injury. When he opened his eyes he saw that Arthur was still at his side, now working a bar of soap into a foamy lather between his hands. Arthur leaned forward and although he moved at a predictable and gentle pace, John could not keep himself from flinching when the larger man made contact. Thick fingers worked the lather in to his wet hair, stopping only momentarily while Arthur shifted himself into a better position. Fingertips moved in small, firm circles along John's scalp as Arthur tenderly washed his hair. The younger man closed his eyes and leaned in to the massage, sinking down in to the warmth of the water slightly as he allowed himself to melt under the sensation. 

Arthur stood and commanded John to rinse out his hair and step out of the tub. As he stood John reached for a towel, but Arthur snatched it from his hands and began dabbing it gently against John himself. He was careful in his movements, ensuring that he disturbed John's injuries as little as possible while towelling the moisture off of his bare skin. 

John was unsure of what to make of this spontaneous display of kindness. When Arthur had built a fire to warm him after he'd washed in the cold river, Arthur had said something about 'taking care of his property'. Surely this is all Arthur was doing now, John decided, although he could feel his heart speed up as he watched the man he loved drop to his knees while he blotted the last of the bathwater off of his legs. 

John's train of thought sped away from him as the statuesque enforcer tossed the towel down and scooped him up in to his arms, doing so with ease as though he had been lifting a small child. John's arms wrapped around Arthur's neck and the men locked eyes once more. Arthur grinned at him and winked quickly. John had pictured a moment like this dozens of times while he was alone in his cot, everything inside of him wanted to lean in and press his lips against Arthur's. He settled instead for simply resting his head on Arthur's shoulder as he was carried out of the room and over the threshold of another. The pounding in his chest became deafening as Arthur gently placed John on to the large bed in the corner of the rented room. 

Arthur turned his back to John, pulling off his satchel and placing it on top of the small dresser against the opposite wall. He pulled his bullwhip from his belt and with both hands he snapped it taught. John jumped at the noise, terror burning in his eyes as he watched Arthur handle the whip. Arthur placed it down on the dresser beside his discarded satchel, John let go of the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. 

Arthur pulled his revolver from it's holster and popped it open, loading the empty chambers with expert speed and then spinning the cylinder dramatically as he turned and approached the bed. John swallowed his nerves as Arthur drew near, but with a loud metallic click Arthur closed the revolver and placed it down on the bedside table. John blinked a few times and looked away, fidgeting with the frayed stitching on the quilt beneath him. 

Arthur returned to the dresser, this time undoing his gunbelt completely. He pulled open the top drawer and placed the worn leather and it's contents inside. Arthur then shrugged his suspenders off to the side of each shoulder and removed them. He folded them in his hands and snapped them taught as well, the threatening crack that broke the silence sent John's mind reeling back to the moment those suspenders had been wielded against him as a weapon. A cold sweat began to prickle against the back of his neck as his mind relived the desperation he'd felt as he attempted to crawl away amidst that merciless beating. 

The suspenders were placed in the drawer alongside Arthur's gun belt. Arthur smirked to himself, sincerely enjoying the stilted breaths and nervous fidgeting from the man laying down behind him. John had tried to act brave, but the fiery determination set in his eyes while they were alone in the wash closet had smouldered out quickly. Here he was, minutes later, twitching and shrinking away from every silent reminder of what Arthur _could_ do to him. Even John had underestimated the toll Arthur's torture had taken on his psyche. 

Arthur began to unbutton his shirt. Once the buttons were undone and both his shirt and union suit were open Arthur retrieved another bottle of bourbon from his satchel and turned towards the bed. He kicked his boots off, each one landing with a hard 'thud' that made John flinch. 

The vivid memory of the metal clasps biting in to his skin was replaced with the shameful pleasure John had felt as he ground himself to completion against those boots. He could feel his arousal spread as he spied the sandy tufts of coarse hair peeking out from between the open layers of fabric barely concealing Arthur's bulk. His dry lips parted slightly as he silently cursed himself for his deranged obsession with the violent monster stalking towards him. He wondered if he should attempt to hide his body's reaction but all thoughts left his mind as the sombre expression on Arthur's face lightened.

Grinning as he approached the edge of the bed, Arthur placed the bottle beside his revolver. He popped open the button on his pants and stared hungrily at John. John held Arthur's gaze as long as he dared before dropping his eyes down to the floor, trying his hardest to avoid staring at the exposed areas of Arthur's chest. His expression was an equal part anxiety & apprehension, shame & longing. 

Arthur reached forward and took hold of John's chin, forcing his face up to meet his gaze once more. John was trembling, unsure of what to do next but desperate to avoid earning Arthur's disapproval. 

“You are allowed to look at me, Johnny.” Arthur's voice was sultry and lustful. His tone clearly expressing his intentions to the younger man shying beneath his touch.

Arthur moved his hand down from John's chin and placed it flat against his chest, pushing him on to his back while he tugged his own pants open. He pulled them down slightly and popped a few more buttons on his underclothes, the head of his swollen cock protruded from the opened fabric. He pulled his union suit off of his shoulders and tugged both layers down and past his hips, letting them fall to the ground. Once freed, the entire length of Arthur's stiff cock sprung forward. He kicked his feet free from the fabric pooled around them and lifted one knee on to the bed.

“Do you have any gun oil?” John blurted suddenly, nervously trying to avoid staring at Arthur's cock as he spoke.

Arthur paused, a quizzical look knitted his brow. He withdrew his knee from the bed and stared at John, his eyes squinting as he tried to make sense of the question. Curiosity getting the better of him, Arthur returned to his satchel, fished out a canister of oil, and brought it to John. He handed it to him and waited silently for an explanation. John sat up, slung his legs over the side of the bed and placed the oil on the bedside table, exchanging it for the bottle of bourbon. His stomach hadn't recovered but the idea of Arthur tearing in to his body like before filled John with an array of emotions best faced with the dull sheen of liquid courage. He opened it and took several large gulps, handing the bottle to Arthur as he grabbed the oil once more. Arthur took a swig and held the bottle close to his lips as he watched John without speaking. 

With a small twist, John opened the canister and poured some oil in to his palm. Unsure of how to explain himself he quickly introduced his oily palm to the underside of Arthur's softening cock. The older man visibly stiffened at the sensation but as John began to work his grip tightly around him, Arthur felt himself sinking in to the touch. The oil allowed John's hand to move rhythmically across the length of his shaft despite John's firm hold. The sensation was new, strange, and it felt fucking amazing; Arthur marvelled at the difference a bit of oil could make. 

Arthur downed another slug of liquor and placed the bottle back on to the table. He didn't want John to stop but he could already feel his body begin to unravel. He grabbed John's wrist.

John's brown pupils had taken on a smokey hue in the wake of his arousal. He had never touched another man like this before and the small, appreciative moans that had escaped from Arthur's lips resonated through John's body and settled somewhere deep inside of his guts. His entire body ached, every inch of his skin was scarred, bruised, cut, or swollen, but still, no ache could drown out the one he felt burning between his legs. 

As though reading John's mind, Arthur used the man's slender wrist to guide him backwards on to the bed. With none of the gentleness he'd shown before, Arthur shoved John in to place on his hands and knees whilst positioning himself on the foot of the bed behind his naked prey. With one hand on John's shoulder and the other guiding the head of his glistening, oily cock, Arthur took a moment to admire the marks he'd painted across the smaller man's back. He was startled, somewhat, when John reached forward and grabbed the abandoned canister from the bedside table. The man turned his head back, his eyes peering shyly through the drying strands of black hair obscuring his face. 

“Please?” he whispered. 

Arthur took the canister from John and froze for a moment, pondering the request. 

Arthur's silence and stillness quickly became too much for John to bear. He wanted to feel Arthur fill him, wanted to feel the same white-hot pleasure that had ripped through his body as Arthur mercilessly fucked him in that dingy basement. John wasn't completely stupid – it hadn't taken long for him to recognize that Arthur got off on making him suffer. Much to his own dismay he had begun to crave Arthur's firm correction, if only for knowing that it stirred something deep inside of the older man. In a moment of desperation, John dropped on to his side and faced his tormentor.

“It will still hurt...” John assured. A small, devilish smile gracing his lips for the briefest moment as his eyes dropped down to the intimidating swell of flesh protruding from Arthur's abdomen. He took Arthur's empty hand in to his own and guided it to his throat. “...Sir.”

Arthur's fingers instinctively wrapped around the delicate skin of John's neck. John's eyelids fluttered closed as he moved his hand away from Arthur's in a show of submission to his lover's sadistic whims. 

Arthur chuckled. He flexed the hand wrapped around John's throat and used it to position John back on to his hands and knees. He poured some oil in to his hand and slathered it on his cock, then poured out the remaining contents down the slope between John's cheeks. He spread the oil with the head of his cock and pressed himself against the tight circle guarding John's insides. Then, he waited.

Within seconds John had begun to squirm beneath him, rolling his hips and flexing his buttocks in a desperate bid to feel more of Arthur's stiffness against his starving hole. John dropped to his elbows and arched his back, pressing his ass upwards against Arthur; ravenous desire laid bare with each rock of his hips. 

Arthur held his cock steady with one hand while the other ran slowly up John's back. He dragged his calloused flesh over the pink areas that were still healing, eliciting gasps and winces from the pathetic creature writhing below. Leaning forward, Arthur whispered gruffly in to John's ear, “Ask.”

Without a second thought John began to beg for Arthur's intrusion, the words tumbling out in a heated mess, “...rough, hard, gentle, slow. Anything- sir. Anything! I need to feel you inside of me again. I- please... please fuck me, Arth- sir!” 

A sharp slap across his buttcheek was the only warning Arthur provided John before plunging his slicked cock inside of him. Anticipating John's scream, Arthur clapped his hand over John's mouth as he began to drill in to him with a ruthless pace. The oil did the trick, allowing Arthur to slam his full length in to John's hole without the dry resistance that Arthur had felt the first time he'd done this. Arthur flashed a vicious grin as his hand grew wet with the hot tears running down John's face. It sounded like John was begging for mercy, but as the skin stretched tightly around Arthur's cock began to spasm less, the man beneath him sounded more and more like a deranged animal begging for harsher treatment.

Arthur slowed his assault, removing his hand from John's mouth and gripping the boy's hips tightly. He wanted to make this time last, he was determined to feed John's sick desires so completely that the passionate fire of his need was felt long after this night. Arthur wanted to fuck his plaything so well that John craved his touch for the rest of his miserable life. He bit his lip roughly to keep himself under control, refusing to give in to the unparalleled pleasure that he experienced as he pounded his hips in to his helpless little toy.

John felt wet, he couldn't focus long enough to pinpoint whether it was from the bath, his tears, his drool, or his sweat. He was wet, and cold, but his skin was burning hot with the fiery aches of his many wounds meeting and mingling with the explosive heat that spread from his guts with each thrust. He felt one of Arthur's hands release it's tight grip on his hip and slide forward, the rough skin of Arthur's fingertips demanding entrance to John's mouth. John complied, eagerly gagging himself on three of Arthur's fingers. Arthur took a few moments to abuse John's throat, but once his fingers had been sufficiently wetted with John's saliva Arthur moved his hand back down, preparing to do something he had never imagined himself ever doing willfully. Trying his best not to think about it Arthur gritted his teeth as he wrapped his thick, powerful fingers around John's leaking cock. The younger man gasped at the sudden touch. Arthur continued to fuck John's ass with a steady pace, awkwardly matching the motions as best he could with his tightened fist. 

John could barely make sense of anything around him, the unprecedented attention Arthur was paying to his cock was the final touch that sent his broken mind over the edge. The sounds tumbling from John's lips were little more than incomprehensible gibberish as he collapsed forward in to his pleasure. Wave after wave of bliss rolled over his pain-wracked body as his balls tightened and emptied themselves through Arthur's firm grasp. Arthur withdrew his hand and repositioned it on John's hip, picking up his pace. The slap of his sweat-kissed skin against the barely conscious body writhing beneath him filled the air as Arthur relished in the heat of the muscles dancing around his cock. 

“You want me to fill your ass up, little boy?” Arthur sneered, squeezing John's hips tight enough to leave lasting marks behind. He fought against his own release as hard as he could, giving the tortured mess below him an opportunity to collect his faculties. After long moments of John groaning and panting Arthur grew impatient. He leaned forward and took a mouthful of skin between his teeth, biting hard enough to illicit an excruciating howl from his mindless plaything. “You gon' deaf, boy?” he growled, releasing his jaw. He maintained his relentless thrusts. 

“Y-yes. Please... fuck! Fuck, p-please...”

“Please what?” Arthur couldn't keep himself from coming for much longer, the sensation of John's guts fighting to push his cock out from John's hole was too much. “Say it!” he ordered through his clenched jaw. 

“Fill my-” Before John managed to finish the phrase, he became wholly overwhelmed by the sensation of Arthur's cock twitching inside of him. Arthur growled as his shaft began to spill over and empty itself inside of the tight cavern gripping around it. He fell forward, his elbows landing in the soft mattress on each side of John's neck. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, his eyes rolled back in his skull as the pulsating grip of John's hole milked every drop of come from his body. Waves of pleasure crashed over his senses as he emptied himself completely in to the man he'd pinned beneath him.

They laid there together, panting and writhing, for some time. Arthur was determined to remain sheathed inside of John until his cock had softened. He lowered his head, lips lightly caressing John's ear as he allowed the soft sounds of his pleasure to be heard. John leaned his head against Arthur's, his focus spent entirely on the feeling of Arthur's limp flesh still stretching him. When Arthur's hips began to shift and John could feel the gentle slide of Arthur exiting him, he mourned the loss of the most perfect moment he had ever felt in the miserable culmination of his time on earth. 

Retaking a seated position on the side of the bed, Arthur considered his next move. The bourbon sloshed inside of the bottle as he reclaimed it from the bedside table. The sound of him swallowing shattered the growing silence within the room. Arthur rested his free hand on John's pale ass cheek, gently squeezing it as he spoke.

“That...” he paused briefly as the burn of liquor threatened to make him cough, “...was something else. I ain't never given much thought to fucking a man before all this, but Jesus, Johnny, that was...” Arthur trailed off in to silence before taking another swig from the bottle. He gave John's ass one more tight squeeze before standing to retrieve his clothes. 

John continued to lie face-down on the bed, listening intently to Arthur's movements as he basked in the warmth of the older man's words. Arthur seemed as though he was genuinely speechless and John had never felt prouder in his life. Sure, he was still a filthy degenerate; folk would definitely string them both up if they were ever caught, but if Arthur was so genuinely satisfied from using his body then maybe inflicting his illness on the man wasn't the worst thing he'd done after all. 

As Arthur finished clothing himself, John could hear him move over to the dresser and begin to rifle through his satchel. The distinct metallic clank of the thin metal bowl Arthur travelled with could be heard as it was placed on the top of the dresser, followed by the sound of Arthur prying a can open with his knife and dumping the contents out. John was exhausted but mounting curiosity staved off his body's urge to succumb to sleep. He raised his head and turned it towards Arthur who he saw was now placing the bowl on the ground at his feet. 

Arthur then moved towards the small fireplace in the middle of the room. He grabbed the poker sitting in it's stand and stirred the coals before adding a log from the neat stack beside the hearth. Flames engulfed the wood, filling the quiet space with a soft crackling and rich orange light. Arthur turned towards John and ordered him to eat. Confused, John slowly pulled himself up on to his feet. 

“Mmm mm,” Arthur chided. “Not like that. Hands and knees. Crawl to the bowl.”

A scowl painted John's features but he lowered himself to the ground without protest. John could feel Arthur's eyes on him as he crawled past. His motions were stifled and pained but he forced himself to move across the floor as gracefully as he could manage; he did not want to disappoint his audience.

Upon reaching the other side of the room he knelt in place and looked up. Arthur's expression had changed once more, the warmth that had been there previously now replaced with an icy trepidation. John swallowed nervously and reached for the bowl. 

“You will not touch the bowl with your hands.” Arthur instructed in a tone as bleak as his overcast irises. He grabbed his satchel from the dresser beside John and strode across the room to position himself comfortably on the edge of the bed. “Now, eat.” he commanded.

John looked up at Arthur with resentment but the man had already busied himself with his satchel and was no longer looking in his direction. It was foolish, anyways. John had polished this man's boots with his tongue not two nights before, there was no sense in catering to his own pride anymore. Arthur wanted an obedient little dog and John wasn't willing to rebel against Arthur's will any longer. His body was a living testament to what resisting would earn him. Resigning himself to his role, John placed his palms flat on the ground and lowered his face towards the bowl. It contained peaches, at least; much to his relief. It could have just as easily been salted offal or some other awful food John detested. He attempted to grab one of the slices with his teeth, only for it to slip from his grasp and splash some of the syrup up in to his face as it fell back in to the bowl. John flinched, his body contorting in an undignified fashion; the involuntary reaction of his muscles putting his abused hole on display. He could hear Arthur let out a small laugh, spurring his humiliation further. Glaring at the peaches, John worked at them voraciously. The noises produced by his attempt to eat were loud, sloppy, and vulgar. 

“Good boy. Spread your knees a little further apart, might help you get down lower.” Arthur suggested, lust returning to his voice. 

John complied automatically, his eyes drifting towards Arthur for a moment as he repositioned himself. The heat from the freshly fed fire was comforting but the warmth he felt caressing the sensitive skin of his abused opening made him painfully aware of how spread and vulnerable he was. 

Arthur had begun sketching as he watched his pet eat. His fingers flew across the page, eager to capture the image before him. The oil covering John's ass caught the light from the fireplace beautifully. John's hole was swollen from Arthur's use and as he watched John struggle to eat he noticed the milky trail of his escaping semen begin to run down the back of John's thigh. 

With great effort John had managed to empty the bowl. He turned towards Arthur, his face soaked with the sticky juice he had done his best to slurp up as he ate. When he realized that Arthur had been sketching as he'd watched him, John was absolutely mortified. Arthur closed his journal and motioned for John to crawl towards him. He pulled out the package he'd picked up from the Farrier and placed it at his own feet. 

“Aren't you a little curious as to what I bought, Johnny? It's a gift for you. Come here and open it.” 

Dutifully, John pushed past his trepidation and crawled towards the bound butcher's paper. He stopped in front of it and looked up at Arthur, feeling completely helpless as he stared up at the fully clothed man ordering him around. The fire kept the room warm but he still felt a chill cut across his naked body.

“You're allowed to use your hands.” Arthur said. 

John tugged at the twine and unwrapped the paper, revealing a slender metal rod. It had a handle on one end and a flat metal plate on the other. The plate, John noticed, was in the shape of the letter “M”. He looked up at the blonde cowboy in ignorance. 

“Do you know what it is?” Arthur asked. 

John shook his head, only knowing that being struck with such an object would do considerable damage. 

Arthur's expression was similar to that of a little boy being given a new toy, but his enthusiasm was sewn heavily with the threads of cruelty. He took the strange rod from John's hands and held it upright by the handle. 

“This is a branding iron, John. Rancher's use it to leave their mark on livestock.” He lowered the end with the plate towards John's face. “It shows other people that the animal wearing the brand is the property of the man who placed it there.” Arthur studied John's reaction closely as he spoke. It didn't seem as though he quite understood what Arthur was trying to explain. “Here,” Arthur held it out to John once more. “Place the flat end deep in the coals. Make sure that the handle is well out the flames, otherwise it might heat up.”

John accepted the rod with wide eyes. He was vaguely familiar with the concept of branding livestock but he had never paid much thought as to what that process might actually look like. Apparently Arthur had, and apparently Arthur intended to mark him as property once and for all. John stared dumbly at the rod, turning it over slowly in his palms. 

“I figured if I went with a simple letter “M”, 'folk who might see it could just assume that you have a real high opinion of yourself.” Arthur chuckled. “Only you'll know the real meaning of it, well, and myself, of course...” 

“...Morgan...” John mouthed silently as he continued examining the rod. The cacophony of thoughts sent swirling through his head by this proposition was deafening, isolating a single one seemed impossible. He was scared; of the pain, of someone noticing, of what might happen to him if they were to figure out the meaning behind the mark. There was excitement also. The idea that Arthur wanted him, wanted to keep him as his own in some serious, permanent way left him gobsmacked. Somewhere in the mix, some tiny little voice that sounded more like John's younger self resented the idea. Several long, quiet minutes had passed as John stared at the metal while he rolled it over in his hands.

An impatient sigh escaped Arthur as he stood and snatched the gift back from John's grasp. John yelped slightly as Arthur's movement brought him back from the depths of his thoughts. 

“If you're not interested in being useful...” 

John turned and watched as Arthur positioned the flat of the iron deep into the bed of hot coals, still completely awestruck by the situation. Happy with the placement, Arthur mumbled something about returning shortly and left the room. John didn't know what to do with himself. He strained to listen for the man's movements outside of the tiny room but couldn't make many sounds out over the crackle of the fire. He hoped that Arthur was retrieving his clothing for him but a nagging doubt in the back of his mind made him think that perhaps Arthur'd gone to procure the services of that pretty little working girl instead. 

Had he not been good enough? Did Arthur want to wipe away the stench of fucking him, replace the memory with a new one he'd make with that large-breasted redhead? The jealousy that Arthur had seeded earlier began to grow, sinking roots deep in to John's heart. Had he misread Arthur? Had Arthur not enjoyed using his body tonight as much as John had thought? He tried to imagine any other scenario that he could to explain the other man's sudden exit but the despair of being fucked and discarded beat out all of John's other rationalizations. He was an idiot for thinking he could have a man like Arthur. He was an idiot for thinking a man like that could ever want him when there were endless beautiful women throwing themselves at his sculpted visage.

John looked around the room, his eyes settling on the leather-bound journal still sitting on the bed. Surely the answers to his questions were scrawled in there, somewhere. The uncertainty gnawing inside of him guided John's movements as he inched towards the book, but fear kept him from reaching out for it. He'd peeked in the covers of Arthur's journals several times when he was a boy, but now, now he keenly felt the risk of being discovered. Surely Arthur wouldn't stand for the betrayal of his privacy. Still, he had left it here unguarded...

The click of the doorknob turning sent John scrambling to pull the blanket from the bed. He cursed himself for not thinking to lock the door as he pulled the fabric over his nakedness. The journal flew off of the mattress and landed open on the floor, John glancing at it woefully before looking up at the large shadow of Arthur filling the doorway. 

Arthur locked the door behind him, giving John a clear view of the quiver strung across his back as he turned. Arthur pulled it off and placed it on the dresser alongside his other effects. He retrieved his journal from the ground, shooting John a quizzical stare before placing it on the bedside table. John's heart was racing, certain Arthur would assume the worst.

“Could'a tidied up while I was gone.” He muttered as he gestured to the empty bowl. John began to move towards it but Arthur stopped him. “Nevermind that, John. It's getting late. Your clothes will be ready soon...”

“You.. you want to leave? Old boy won't be ready 'till morning, I thought.”

“No, no. It ain't that. We ain't got a whole lot of time together before we start leaving the wrong impression on these folks...” Arthur seemed distracted by other thoughts as he rubbed his chin and surveyed the room, “...and I still have a lot of work to do on you yet.”

John swallowed, unsure of what to make of Arthur's words. Arthur grabbed the bed by it's side rails and dragged it to the middle of the room, shooing John out of his way as he moved. He instructed John to lie down on his stomach, hastily tying John's ankles to the metal bars of the foot board as soon as he complied. Arthur circled around to the front of the bed, securing each of John's wrists to the headboard. He ordered John to free himself and after a good while of watching his pet struggle against the ropes, instructed John to stop trying. 

John could hear Arthur fumbling around with the items on the dresser, suddenly all too aware of the fact that Arthur had left the whip out on top instead of placing it in the drawer with his weapons. John could hear the sound of Arthur unsheathing his knife. He could hear the metal blade scraping against wood. 

Arthur was mindful to maintain control of his knife as he made a final push to remove the head from one of his arrows. He cleaned off some of the burrs and then tested the thin rod by hitting an imaginary foe. 

A faint whizzing sound cut the air and though it made John nervous he was relieved to know that Arthur wasn't holding the implement that he dreaded the most. 

“I'm going to ask you some questions, John. If I like your answers, you won't be punished.”

“And if you don't?”

John felt the sharp bite of something hard and thin land across his bare ass-cheeks. He gasped in surprise but the hit itself hadn't actually been all that painful. It stung, sure, but it quickly dissipated in to a light tingling sensation. Compared to everything else he'd endured it was almost _enjoyable_. John craned his neck in a futile attempt to get a better look at what his companion was using to strike him.

Arthur watched the skin he'd hit develop a slight swell before continuing. “You ain't been honest with me, John.” Another light sting landed across John's shoulders. “At least, you ain't been honest _enough_. You know things that you ain't bothered telling me about.”

“I-I don't know nothing, Sir.” John assured. He could not sincerely think of one thought that he'd ever kept from Arthur; felt like he'd already spilled out his entire soul under the brutal inquisition of Arthur's bullwhip. 

“A-and if I know anything you don't,” he continued, “it ain't for any reason other than me not thinking to share it. I don't have nothing I'm keeping from you.” 

Arthur answered John with another flick of the make-shift cane, this time crashing the supple wood against the tops of his thighs. That placement had been the worst so far, John's hips wiggled involuntarily in an attempt to sooth the pain. 

“You been spending time with the boy?”

“I have. Got a whole list of figures he'd like me to carve out for him.”

The room was silent as Arthur collected his thoughts. 

“Who's Jack's Dad?”

“I don't know-” 

The cane landed in three different spots rapidly, Arthur making a point of aiming for the scabbed welts dotted across the white canvas of John's bare back. John grunted, but otherwise remained still. 

“Who's Jack's Dad, John?”

Arthur fixated on the movement of the ligaments in John's shoulder; rippling in anticipation of another lick from the wooden rod. He was absolutely beautiful, Arthur thought, and fear seemed to highlight the intricacies of his slender body. Arthur struck the cane at empty air, the 'whoosh' of the implement making John's whole body tense up. _'Beautiful.'_

“I'm going to ask you one more time, John. You think real carefully on your answer.” 

John's mind was reeling, he'd never actually asked Abigail who she thought might have fathered the boy. At first, he didn't care to know. After returning to camp for the year he'd tried to run, after facing the disappointment and scorn from his family, he hadn't had the courage to press the issue further.

“Who is Jack's Daddy, John?” Arthur spoke slowly, his voice was stern and heavy with malice. 

“ _I don't know!_ ” John cried out. The cane had begun snapping across the tops of his thighs again, harder than each hit before. Tears welled in his eyes. John pressed his face down in to the mattress to muffle his screams. Four, five... seven hits had landed in rapid succession before John lost count, realizing finally what it was that Arthur had been asking him. 

“M-me!” He sobbed, wrists and ankles twisting in the ropes to distract from the agonizing sting burning into the backs of his legs. “Me. I'm... I'm Jack's daddy.”

“Good boy.” Arthur patted John's ass affectionately. “And you let him know that you're proud he's your son? Just like I'd told you to?”

A sigh slipped from John's mouth as his eyes screwed shut. _'Shit..'_ he thought. For a moment he'd considered lying to Arthur but he was somehow certain he'd suffer worse for being dishonest. “I ain't found the right moment just yet.”

The beating continued, this time the flurry of strikes were concentrated across John's back and shoulders. Each viscous snap of the cane landed in time with Arthur's words: 

“I. Gave. You. An. Order. Marston.”

“I'm s-sorr.... Augh!... sorry. I'm sorry.” John tried his best to offer an apology, broken as it was between his cries of anguish. The cane seemed to leave the skin it kissed with heightened sensitivity, the areas of his back where the impact of the tool overlapped quickly became excruciating. Sweat had begun to soak his hair as he writhed under Arthur's abusive attention. 

The strikes slowed, the room falling quiet once more. The shuffle of Arthur's feet and the sounds of him adding wood to the fire were all John could make out. After the crackle of the burning wood picked up, Arthur spoke again.

“That wife of yours, she been bedding men?”

“I assume so. Ain't asked.”

Three gentle hits landed across John's ass.

“Really ain't much of a husband, Marston.” Arthur's tone had become sweet and playful. Arthur jumped back between lighthearted and serious so rapidly it seemed as though he was a man who'd come completely untied. In the moment John struggled to recall if this was how Arthur had always treated the men so unfortunate as to find themselves on his bad side. 

“You told me you ain't never _been_ with anyone before-”

“I haven't, not no one! Y-you're the fi- Auughuh!! Fuck!” John buried his face in to the mattress and screamed. Arthur had begun smashing the cane against John's lower back with all of his might. Three agonizing blows and John was certain he must be bleeding. 

“Don't interrupt me, boy.” Arthur warned. “You told me you ain't never been fucked before, how is it you knew to use the gun oil?”

John drew in a few long, shaky breaths. His whole frame was vibrating. The ropes around his wrists had begun cutting in to his skin. 

“That d-deputy, back in Rhodes. He'd told me about it.”

“Yeah? Were planning to fuck him, were ya? Aww, Johnny, I'm so sorry I interrupted you.” Arthur mocked.

“N-no. No. I... I told him..” Sorrow tugged at John's heart as thoughts of the evening he'd spent talking with Eddy filled his memory. The man had been so kind, so understanding; in that time they had shared their darkest secrets Eddy had acted as John's best and truest friend. The snap of wood caressing John's asscheeks brought him back to attention. 

“I told him I'd seen you naked and was, well, scared that it would hurt.” A self-pitying scoff rumbled past John's lips. The naive fears he'd harboured less than a fortnight before had become ironic in light of the violent penetration he'd suffered since.

The rough tip of the arrow's headless shaft was pressed between John's cheeks, making the younger man freeze completely. Arthur prodded the stick against John's hole. “Did I make it hurt enough for you, Johnny?” 

Unsure of what to say, John continued to lay motionless while he focused solely on the sensation of roughly cut wood probing against the swollen tissue of his sphincter. The stick Arthur had been torturing him with was twisting against his opening, threatening to push inside at any moment. He was relived to feel Arthur pull it away and continue punishing his thighs.

“Open your mouth.”

John complied, immediately receiving the stick between his teeth. 

“Hold this for me, boy.” Arthur commanded, patting John's ass once more. Now able to take a close look, John realized that Arthur had been using an arrow to punish him. Well, most of one, anyways. It appeared as though the scraping sounds John'd heard before had been Arthur sawing off the arrowhead. For a moment, he thought about how inventive Arthur could be, admiring the man's resourcefulness. That train of thought ended abruptly, disrupted by the sound of Arthur pulling the branding iron from it's place nestled in the coals. 

“So, Johnny. You still _love_ me?”

The man bound to the bed attempted to nod, the movement of his head restricted by the ends of the stick centred in his mouth pressing against his arms. A searing heat danced against the side of John's face as Arthur held the glowing “M” near his soft, pink facial scars. 

“Is that right? You want to be mine forever, then. Is that it?”

Again, John attempted his best to nod, mouthing an enthusiastic 'Yeppphhhhh Fir” around the rod in his mouth. This was it. Arthur was going to claim John as his own. The glowing metal danced in the edges of John's sight as Arthur knelt on the bed and positioned himself on his knees between John's ankles. The thrill John felt coursing through his body was shameful. 

“You really want this, boy?” Arthur asked again, teasing the raised welts on John's ass with the heat resonating from the rapidly cooling iron. 

“Pleethh fir.” John begged. His whole body tensed as he felt the hot metal contact some of the thin, lightly-coloured hairs on his ass. He knew the brand would hurt for days, maybe weeks, but there was nothing he wanted more than to wear Arthur's mark, the symbol of Arthur's ownership, on his body. In a tense and silent moment, John felt the sudden chill of the air as Arthur pulled the brand away. He stood suddenly, placing the iron safely over the edge of the dresser. 

Arthur pulled the arrow shaft from John's mouth, stuffing the confused man's slack jaw with a roll of fabric. Arthur had returned to the rear of the bed before he spoke again, finally addressing John's muffled confusion. 

“You're a god damned _liar_. I saw you reaching for my journal. Figured you could tear out your letter and make a run for it?”

John's mind was reeling. What had Arthur thought he'd been doing when he accidentally threw the journal on the ground? Did Arthur think he'd planned on running naked through Valentine to escape from him? Cane-strokes had begun to rain down on John's body, peppering his skin from heel to shoulder. 

“You think I'd actually _want_ you, John? 'Broken mess like you? Can't even follow some basic orders...”

Each stroke became increasingly vicious, Arthur's breathing was laboured from the strain of maintaining the brute power behind his assault. 

“...first fucking night you enter my tent and you're already trying to snatch your letter from my journal.”

The pain from each stroke had blossomed in to a shimmering explosion of hot, white light behind John's closed eyelids. He became dizzy as he tried to picture the night Arthur was describing. He... he remembered staring at Arthur's journal... 

John's back felt as though it has been doused with kerosene and set alight. He was screaming into the makeshift gag as Arthur continued to land blow after blow across his body. Arthur was thrilled by the strips of deep crimson & fuchsia he'd begun to draw to the surface of John's white skin. 

John fought against his blurred consciousness as he struggled to recall why he'd been looking at Arthur's journal. He... He hadn't even considered that the letter he'd written out to Tacitus Killgore was in there. No, he'd just wanted to see what Arthur had written down while he had bathed in the river. Arthur was wrong. John hadn't even considered running...

And why hadn't he? John thought that it had been Arthur's blackmail, the letter, the threat of death that had him falling to his knees so willingly, but now? Now he couldn't be so sure. He loved Arthur, and moreso he loved the way Arthur looked at him while he was reducing him to tears. Was he so pathetic and driven by lust that he would submit to his own brutalization just to please the object of his desires? John already knew the answer. 

As each merciless caress of the cane dragged him further from consciousness, John swore to himself that he would endure any torment he must to win the mark of Arthur's possession. Arthur may have rejected him tonight, but with every breath John had left in his body he would fight to earn the burning scar that would permanently brand him as property of his beloved Master, Mister Morgan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was soo so so much more I wanted to do with this chapter. Oh well. I'll date any future edits that may roll in.
> 
> P.S. Kelly, I have a comfort scene with Abigail in the works for you, but like, it ain't going well.


End file.
